I would tell Renee all of it, the details held in my stomach, fluttering up my throat as my mother and I got in the car and started the familiar drive to Skateland Roller Rink.
“Index Finger for Touching”
“It Takes Strength”
We don’t get along because we’re always fighting for a spot near the air pump.
It’s always interesting to hear the term “free market” used in The New York Times, as well as other major media outlets. It’s rarely, if ever, done in a negative sense.
Birds on a Wire
There’s an image I saw somewhere online: two or three dozen blackbirds are perched up on powerlines. All are on the highest powerline except for one; on the bottom wire, there’s a lone blackbird smack in the middle. A caption reads, “Who did you notice more?”
Sometimes pain blunts my memory of myself.
I’m not trying to minimize your woes, but I’ll see your bad knees and rosacea and raise you no boobs, scar tissue, and fragile post-chemo hair.
For no reason I can remember I happened to glance uphill to my left.
Tell jokes about “miorities” to “minorities” to show you’re “down.”
“Theosophy Number One”
“It is All Falling Indelibly Into the Past”
“The Bad Witness”
“Sitting By Yourself at the End of the World — I Mean, Year”
—The Ascension of Slim, Jay Watson, Brauer Museum It isn’t this half moon Jumpmanned just…
The first time Isabel saw Camila’s ghost, she was standing at her beside next to the IV drip. Her face was still eighteen and fresh.
More and more, in late winter especially, I have the feeling that I am dying—or, to put it more accurately, that the best of my life has happened and my decline has begun. And this is a bitter feeling—wrong, too, I hope.
“These shows, and others like them, pulse with near-pornographic magnetism. It’s hard to pull your gaze away.”
“I’ve only been to France a handful of times since I moved away…and each time it gets into me with weird intensity.”
Her words were tender, but raw in intonation and contained the kind of truth you can come to only after having lived through something.
“Ares, the God of Blades”
We recited vows as poems, while our hippie rabbi strummed his guitar and hummed nigun that…
Nope, Roberta Flack didn’t write that song. Find out more in Thomas Larson’s review.