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Timeexpand_more“You need me,” says the mind. “I just want what’s best for you.”
We need a silvery stream that banks as smoothly as a plane’s wing.
do you asks pretty sue know what I love what pretty please tell us
A bird is chirping outside, the world is carrying on, and she is in it.
Your soul feels old and familiar like a book that opens to my favorite pages.
This body is all I have, I say. Some days it is still not enough.
In a future we believe in, these plants will all be ghosts.
This must be what it’s like to be seen by God as we inch toward the infinite.
Let me stay here, in the thick of the sweetness, just a moment longer.
A strange odd lost duck day all over—sunrise with a honed edge.
In other words, beachfronts like Bolaño’s and mine are Nowhere.
Am I here without me just as I was before when stars spoke.
How’s everything? It’s been forever! Things with me are pretty good.
Abandon the idea that arts and sciences are mutually exclusive.
A collection from San Franciscan photographers Eszter and David.
My father stood up, unable to choose which one of us to kill first.
Even glaciers have phone lines even Roquefort has its soft tufts of sweet
Now the long freight of autumn goes smoking out of the land.
Vultures liked to perch on the austere ledge outside my window.
We pried the last of the pallid squid from their crevices and ate them.
Bees may not be bought. Our children may never know apples.
The author reads her story, a finalist in the Winter 2013 Story Contest.
When his father was out cold he tied him up, roping his arms to his sides.
“You are a strange one,” she says. “Do you want to see my new tattoo?”
Song where a house becomes a dandelion in a puff of savage wind.
My father was neither kind nor strong in his bruising.
It is natural that the novelist should doubt his ability to cope with his task.
Your bookself will appear to find you trivial, its nose deep in some tome.
I’m the one with the most crumbs, little bits of salad or fudge.
Be glad the numbness in your legs isn’t reading on your face.
