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City Lifeexpand_moreI can only say I am here searching solo for remnants of Seoul Drive
It was an act that made me feel safer but also somehow more imperiled.
They’re not, and it’s not, and we’re not, and only a god can save us.
The excursion brought shape to that entire scruff-covered summer.
Part of my desire to be in London related to its writers.
It’s raining concrete. I bite my grief wetly. Who will test these chains?
Pushing by the man, he ran down the street towards the station.
A boat-tailed grackle counts the passing cars from the traffic light.
She looked over through the falling snow. “Jack?” she said. “Is that you?”
Don’t start conversations or attract attention. Don’t be suspicious.
I’ve wavered in confidence, but never on whether I was going to write.
A friend said she hated the State of Israel because it killed her cat.
The irreversible ink stain breaking the face of whatever we skate on.
They were such dummkopfs they kicked out the Jews.
No one in Lagos slouches. Bravado pulsates through the room.
Whatever was wrong with his brain, he could still smell her skin.
poor Larry. you never asked to be raised from your tomb.
All afternoon it rains on the traffic outside my window. It’s nothing new.
Desire whittled me a tool I’d never seen but knew how to use.
You decide that in this city all things are possible, even happiness.
Be honest. Writing is about honesty, and articulating that honesty.
Be honest. Writing is about honesty, and articulating that honesty.
Mark was spending his life with one of the world’s weaklings.
There is still the same reaching of the tongue for that pink ridge.
I did lose my dirty fingernails and ragged legs, my purpled forearms.
The library is inhabited by spirits that come out of the pages at night.
Something has to be what this is, old and primitive, and it sounds like this.
Time is changing. November 1. Clocks back one hour. New season.
“There’s life after birth! That’s what jails and lethal injections are for!”
Sit beside me. Old country, I am hopeful and troubadour.
