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Tweet Hi, kids. If you’ve landed on this website and read past its front page, there’s at least a 40% chance that you’re a nerd. And I offer that epithet in complimentary fashion—nerds are my people. We’re as much a family as any political party, any college fraternity, any professional football team or its fans. We’re . . . → Read More: Nerd Flirting 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 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 On the occasion of learning that Baby Jessica—who enraptured the hearts of the nation when she fell down a Midwestern well in 1987—is now posing for adult magazines. Like Odysseus, she saw darkness that the living are denied. The bottom was a permanent evening, treading water with Charon. When they hauled her up they saved . . . → Read More: Five Modified Haiku Tweet The wax and whiskey taste of your tongue, the ragged sound of your breath and the appoggiatura of your whine as you closed your velvet eyes. In you I saw god. The backboard drummed the drywall in perfect time with the backbeat of the song on the stereo. As you ground your teeth and pounded . . . → Read More: I Will Be a One-Night Stand Tweet Her skirt and white cotton panties lay strewn, witness to our careless, quotidian act and reminder, drawing me back in nostalgia for the better days when we were young, and every boy’s worst nemesis was the clasp of a bra: all that lay between a frustrated hell and undiscovered Eden. And eventually, after clench-jawed fumbling, . . . → Read More: Tartan Tweet This won’t be love- making. It’s an empty construct. An abomination. Keep reading and I will promise you no symbolic language, no archetypal characters, no deus ex machina, no meaning buried beneath the text—except a lusty reverence for the very act of creation. This is poetic masturbation. Likewise, it will soon spiral out of control. . . . → Read More: An Uninspired Onanism Tweet You pointedly turn your head left and so do I; walking towards each other, past. Your hair is a different cut now. My skin is tanned caramel for a change. We both have new tattoos. My pant cuffs drag on the tiles and planks collecting dust. Your breasts are parted by the crinoline strap of . . . → Read More: Negating Intimacy Tweet After a while, he went to the extent of renting two beds, twin pressboard dressers; a larger apartment, as well. He said support was paid up to date and the troublesome custody battle had come to an end. All of this means, he believes, that no one could doubt his daughters—estranged, now teenaged—are really coming . . . → Read More: Elaborate Act Tweet I catch my neighbor slick-fisted and popeyed, baring down hard, shoulder shaking like a boxer working a speed bag, him working himself. Even through fifteen feet of dark, two glass panes, I can see him blush—cheeks’ capillaries engorged, as he becomes aware of me aware of him. His head drops away suddenly, isolating me with . . . → Read More: Apartment Building |
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