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Tweet 1986 The arrangement that summer was as follows: Cyril St. John was allowed to assemble every day the yellow and sepia sofa cushions into the two sides and roof of a crude igloo; he could use the twenty-two-inch Pye Teletext to close in the fort’s front, and a second-hand, straight-backed cedar chair for a rear . . . → Read More: Revenants Tweet I. You got your first tattoo when you were twelve. Thirty days back from the hospital, your best friend Jack, son of a three-strike con, did the work for you. He had the know how; made the ink from toothpaste, newspaper ash, and the rainbow runoff of a busted Vis-a-Vis marker set. The outline hurt . . . → Read More: Husk Tweet Error’s mother was disappointed when she didn’t die as promised during childbirth. He knows this because she told him. He tries never to think of it so, of course, he always does. The story goes like this: Four months after he prolapsed her uterus during a difficult breech, Keiko swaddled her son in cotton sheets, . . . → Read More: Gehenna Tweet A voice on the other end of a 911 call says “STAY CALM” while her body is cold and staring up. Holding my hand. “STAY CALM.” But I need to know, how do I wave fingers and make eyes close like on TV? The voice on the other side asks an address as I repeat . . . → Read More: Receiver Tweet I am a peridot. My two half-sisters: garnet, an amethyst. And together, we’re mounted on a circlet of greening, tarnished gold. The ring is the sum of her life and the remainder of her existence. It is the single souvenir I took when she died. And though I recall it spinning freely on my mother’s . . . → Read More: I’ll Have to Put It on a Chain Tweet The collar of a washed and washed, charcoal black rock and roll tee is torn out, exposing her shoulders and back, all covered by a tattooed line drawing of an angel that looks like amateur calligraphy. She claims to be skilled enough to read an aura from five yards and knows that Rider-Waite is the . . . → Read More: “She Understands & Is Proud” Tweet I would no longer know your real face in a crowd. I only recognize wax paper skin, bedsores, baldness and thrush; the you that looked melted in the sun: a thalidomide. This you had spread through memory by the capillary effect, like the expanding puddle of your piss—the time you yanked the catheter and wet . . . → Read More: Ignoring Your Corpse Tweet 0-302 ft. Daddy named me Honus, but everyone’s always only called me what he called me: Onus. Lose the “H.” He told me someday I’d get the joke. I don’t. But there’s lots I don’t get. Like acts of God. Like how to do life, nowadays. But I don’t need to understand things to outsmart . . . → Read More: Horse Latitudes Tweet The color of your eyes is a complete surprise to me. I’ve never considered it. You’re sitting across from me and you’re brooding, bellicose. I have no right to be shocked, but your attitude is not the one I expected. When I spoke to you Tuesday you insisted, even sounded enthusiastic. But settling on your . . . → Read More: Here Is My Only Elsewhere Tweet My mother is dead. There she is, right in front of me, fake-looking and waxy the way department store mannequins imitate life. And for sure, I’m crying, shaking, but not about death. The truth is, I have no idea why I’m crying. I’m holding her hand, cold and that cyanotic blue, but none of this . . . → Read More: Marooned |
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