I cannot remember the last meal I shared with my father. Only those long last nights slipping him what ice chips he could still stomach and then swabbing his chapped lips with a wetted pink sponge.
Forgive me, I have smuggled them away from my father’s house to this sodden pitch in the middle of my life, their names asleep under my tongue. I have walked
Time is the distance between birth and death. Parallel universes appear in real time on your screen. Place is an illusion. For instance, I am in the Palace of Versailles.
Rats can laugh, but the dogs aren’t smiling: they’re hooked on oxytocin, which rises when we lock eyes with one another. Oxytocin is not dissimilar to OxyContin, an opioid analgesic which can result in a similar sense of euphoria or attachment.
Your heart is like an island, like a bomb chambered for containment and you should handle my heart like a rare species of flower that grows only here, like a thing that can destroy.
There must’ve been some incident, something to push both Dickinson and Proust into isolation, the horse thought as a student, but now he thinks time and immortality require one’s full attention.
When I was a child, I used to speak like a child, think like a child, reason like a child; when I became a man, I did away with childish things I CORINTHIANS 13:11 Redaction? No, monument: a [...]
Outside the Visitor Center—patrons queuing up in khaki camo shorts, baseball caps, Where Big Bucks Lie, boxes of MoonPies wheeling by—two black men with rubber gloves, with Windex, on a July Monday, polish the bronze Lincoln.
Surely you stay my certain own, you stay obtuse. Surely your kisses were little poisons gripping tight my lips, my arms, mapping their way across my unsure body. Surely, this fission
in the selfie he is currently texting to “Lula Mae,” the man next to me on flight 4853 to Columbia, dressed in a black turtleneck and a thick double chain,
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