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she wasn’t very interesting but few people are.
just being dead would be fair enough.
sometimes it’s hard to know what to do.
longshot
drink to it and because of it.
it seemed less real, and that was what was needed.
relentless as the tarantula
it’s funny, isn’t it? #2
about the PEN conference
they float well down the river lighting up the night as good words should.
good enough to remember now when the light is yellow and the nights are slow.
my buddy
the magic curse
party’s over
escape
it’s not a nice world, a nice world it’s not…
magic machine
yes, it’s the dream that keeps you going then and now.
it’s almost entirely waste. regret is mostly caused by not having done anything.
there are certainly any number of lonely people without much to do with their nights.
I looked up into the dark and thought, now, here is one I will never be able to write about: she was neither good nor bad, real or unreal, kind or unkind, she was just a girl from a college somewhere between the Rose Bowl and the dumping grounds.
from an old dog in his cups…
sometimes getting started in the big time is tantamount to trying to raise an erection in a tornado and even if you do nobody has the time to notice.
hot
as the real and the artificial heart continues to falter, famished… I love you but don’t know what to do.
help wanted
our laughter is muted by their agony
the mutilation of talent the gods seldom give but so quickly take.
what am I doing?
working out
how is your heart?
what matters most is how well you walk through the fire.
that shades into darkness and then into darker darkness and I can’t see beyond that.
it’s ours
