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Pigeons are born knowing where they belong, with whom they belong.

A high roller gave her money to stay in his room for the weekend.

I yell at the boys: “What are you doing! Are you out of your minds?”

They lived on the street, their mom a prostitute and heroin addict.

There is a pure fear, in waking somewhere you have not lain down. She runs until her blisters bleed. Then, she runs some more.

It was just what it was. Sex with someone who was not her husband.

Let the public do itself the honor to read and follow in my footsteps.

His beginnings, his genesis as a writer, and the fateful connections between life and art.

Mostly, 90 percent of the time, the big ones trigger the bad attacks.

Tana Wozcjuk

“Then I can promise to kill either of you if I ever see you again.”

Some days he thinks he has patients to see, meetings to attend.

shoulds & shouldn’ts unwound now to dids & didn’t

Paharganj reels with beggars. Old women, boys, breast-feeding girls.

Every morning I wipe the sweat from the hollow of my master’s throat.

Not every fate was alike. Not everyone ended up paired off in love.

Now, this new dark blot on the street. Maybe motor oil, or blood or worse.

She pointed to the end of the driveway. “Is he yours?”

He’s in the back of the cop car, hands in handcuffs, shaped like infinity.

Ring, ring, ring at 2 a.m. means meth’s got my brother in the slammer again.

“That pool,” Kenny said, breathing harder. “I’m telling you, it’s magic.”

I push the stroller across the courts to the scene of the thing I don’t get.

Lynette had stepped on something sharp. There was blood.

She’s young and lovely in a mad, disheveled way, and hard to resist.

An owl, as large
and incongruous in the night sky as a flying man.

An owl, as large and incongruous in the night sky as a flying man.

I screamed every word and waited for the stones to answer back.

I have to wait till day to tell you that you’ve sunk down below sea level.

Once she said, “Dying is nothing, but . . . the separation!”