give you my word
How subliminally selfish.
You concluded your purpose
with the daintiest of handling.
Fucked would be my word.
Enjoy your university, sir
I’m high anyway
I’ve got my vo-cab-er-net
The Story Killer
Vincent was alone in his study. A lamp hung in the corner, casting light onto the floorboards. It was raining.
His paper-strewn desk, stoic and heavy in the cold room, caught only a glimpse of the lamp’s glow. Vincent paced restlessly. The night had grown so long already and he had come up with nothing. He scratched his head and then his neck, as though to jolt some idea to life. He poured wine, his hand shaking so much that he spilled large drops onto his serving tray.
The Bad Boyfriend (EP)
There hadn’t been cowboys in The Valley since the early nineteen eighties, but they were re-emerging. At shopping malls stocked with shoe stores, cell phone kiosks, jewelry retailers, and airbrush photography studios, you could find them. Even though it had been forty years since their boots clicked against the cold, shiny floors, the cowboys were comfortable because the shops hadn’t changed much. And shoppers still had fancy hair, big earrings, and credit cards just like in 1983. On any given day in 2017, there would be a cowboy leaning up against the wall of an ice cream vendor or with his arms propped up on a corn dog stand. It was home.
What One Does at Arrival: Part 4 (A Gift for Emily)
“Will you be there? It would be so incredible if you could come!” I won’t be there. “I’ve missed seeing you, your smile. This will be so special, I really hope you can make it.” I cannot.
It is a bridal shower for Emily, a poet I know. She’s a better poet than I am and so I dislike her. Her poems have more texture, she talks about tendons and tangible pain and it infuriates me. I buy her a gift. I wrap it myself. And then I put it in my bookcase and stay home and never call. I just never show up for the party of four female poets to celebrate Emily’s engagement.
And then she gets married in Oregon at a farm with ribboned bouquets and she’s exquisite.
And I keep the gift, the book I bought for her.
This Is the Wednesday Night Saloon
I’m here
I said to the ladybug next to my fist
then took my hand from the bar
dropped my hat onto a stool
unfastened my holster
I started to yell that I was a butterfly
The bug fluttered, walked away
I poured a beer anyway
slung off my belt
turned down my brim
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