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Life Choicesexpand_moreTrump reminded me of the guys I grew up with on Long Island.
They all pivoted to face us, tan mannequins on a conveyor belt.
He bound me to blind obedience, for which I’d shown a propensity.
Histories we spin from lust, our tongues heavy and soaked.
Who needs driftwood when I can bury myself in your loamy soil.
She wears her nakedness like it has been woven from air.
Lebanon’s sky was full of stars. The sky here doesn’t have any stars.
Professor Flacks could tell you everything about James Joyce.
insomniacs gesturing in a cave of neon light the narrative of their lives
The waves of laughters breach an inlet of cumulus and I’m excited.
I want to sleep in a bed next to a man who won’t dream of me all night.
One day, we will all turn into choir girls—all soft and hollow inside.
God was surrounding the chair, leaves flourishing from a sickly tree.
You can stand on the edge and tremble with fear or risk your life.
In the many pages of the book of love this is only one story.
My “lonelymaking.” Also known as my horrible secret, continent-wide.
Even this says nothing of your desire—to be put to use.
Two surgeons vaulted over a counter to hold open my incisions.
It is the one day that is purely American. Yes, a day of celebration.
I repeated the name thoughtfully, then said no, I didn’t think I knew her.
We might have seen it coming, had we not had our eyes fixed on it.
Craig Bueltel
A boy knew he wouldn’t see his mother’s face as he rose from the mat.
Life is a dream, he thought. Something she knew and I didn’t.
All I could focus on was if he was going to ask me to date him.
An idea surfacing—a crack of orange teeth. As if a ceiling disappears.
The draft of ten handwritten pages would have to be cut back to five.
The sense all along has been that there’s some madness in her.
We put effort into making things that No Man would ever think of creating.
There is a pinhole of light through the fog. A skiff on a lake.
