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I’m afraid to say anything or nothing, I’m white & unalterably broken.

The dead cowards my parents on a tear through the goddamn fields.

All diseases were conquered. Death was an adventure for volunteers.

I don’t want fiction. What I want is truth. Or someone’s version of it.

Human language, Winston thought, was not adequate for spiritual union.

There was no sense in brushing off or any other civilized thing.

I shoved them one by one, easy as pie yet with care, just shy of mercy.

How welcome my birth must have been to the raw soldier.

History howls for direction so I remind him how the hero was lost.

Certainly the ushers who pass the baskets know me as a miser.

We take our solace, in a time of malaise and mourning, in the close-at-hand.

You will be a broke blues man with only some story of how you were.

Ghosts are real. This much I know. It’s the living that give me trouble.

My grandfather committed my grandmother to a mental asylum.

Marie was therefore exiled, as it were, like Cordelia in the old play.

Felicia knew why he was there. He was waiting. Waiting for her.

Tongue, eye, nose—which has the shortest route to the brain, heart?

Widow. I look up the etymology. To separate, split, cleave, divide.

The guy who drove the mother to the morgue hands him an empty. Nostrils a little raw, displaced, conscripted, by your Shock and Awe.

I can see on him how things are changing for and against us.

For all the stories they’d concocted, the real one electrified them.

How much simpler and more satisfying was the company of men.

I needed a paycheck a lot more than I needed to be kissed.

My bike, my skinny body, my pent breath was thrown to the grass.

She remembers that golden ocean, the promise of a whole new land.

She remembers that golden ocean, the promise of a whole new land.

We are going south where I know that my father is going to die.

When he was a child, my father had a cousin who was buried by a plow.

The stones here carry the island’s low cry inside them. A landlocked grief.

The animals are dying. All the beautiful women are dying too.