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He glowered even as a little child. Maybe because he has your bad eyes.

If every cowboy has a sad song, I’m afraid you are mine to perform.

If only to hold on by opening lord give me this one eighth day

How do we get there, to where we can answer what the jingle is asking.

I will make my own man I will stitch together a coat of drunk minks

Bright rot laces the air, light sharpens each leaf. On our way to fallow, fire.

There was nothing sadder than the look of defeat in a man’s eyes.

I open the door and Eleanor is leaning against the wall, paper white.

Appearance does not really appear, but it appears to appear.

The window washer smiles a little and licks his lips. Nadine smiles back.

“The basis of literary friendship is mixing the poisoned bowl.”

“Fuck you,” I said, but it was hard to say it with any meaning.