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Illnessexpand_moreFitzgerald was about to turn thirty and felt the press of time.
I tell him: junkies are the only people worth talking to about love.
I tried mightily, but no longer could I ladle those ancient words into the air.
The elevator inside him begins to fall with dizzying speed.
The pillow into which her face was turned muffled her voice.
A bird is chirping outside, the world is carrying on, and she is in it.
Suddenly, all of the past seemed now like the same endless race.
Think of the fish whose stripes appear only on cooking through. Fold each thought: the highway stop where toilet paper is piled.
I lost my medicine bag from back when I believed in magic.
Some days Barbie Chang wants to hang up her Asian boots.
I could not tell what visions were vanishing in the dying slave.
The dead children were wheeled away, covered with white sheets.
Why does she do it? She knows cutting yourself is a joke. Goth, idiotic.
Another day, I read my poems and wonder: Where is the world?
Your intelligence and charisma would serve you well in life.
Even glaciers have phone lines even Roquefort has its soft tufts of sweet
I’m not here to remember a friend, but to say good-bye to a part of myself.
It seems too late for them to change, to find a way to survive awake.
I looked out at the busy world, and I saw nothing but its ugly bones.
At first my dad was optimistic that he could be a one-armed farmer.
In three years he had made her forget that blindness meant not seeing.
Nobody knows where I am, Ned thought. No one in the whole world.
A boy who makes dinosaurs from blue clay, each one with three hearts.
Here’s a first, he said, some nutbag wants to dig the grave himself.
The story doesn’t begin until the van breaks down, I always say.
“And if you ever tell anybody what I’m about to tell you, I’ll deny it.”
Someone was saying his name, and that’s how he knew he was dead.
The store was one of his last-ditch efforts to make a pile of money.
With my son in the NICU and my wife in tears, it felt good to disobey.
