No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
You never understood the appeal—brown and gelatinous, tasteless under its soy sauce dressing. Dog food, your classmates used to hiss in the cafeteria. You flung it into the trash, container and all. Go back to your country. Can you see anything, with those eyes? You thought you belonged in the garbage as well, safe among juice boxes and pizza crusts.
“The suffering is…it’s just sublime. Do you understand what I mean?...
I was Dish Pig, my lot to scrape, wash, polish, repeat. No customer interaction for me, save for pouring Mr. Evans’s Guinness pint.
Joe told me that they chained him to a hospital bed so he wouldn’t escape. Flight risk. Young male. Tested positive for COVID-19. It seemed so unlikely. What were the chances? And that’s when I realized that they were pretty high.
We wandered the city heading towards Rockefeller Center to see the Christmas tree
While I carried my ancient 35mm Voigtlander stopping frequently to take pictures
When I spotted my only wealthy relatives across the street
Henry had heard that dinners at Porter’s College were always a pleasant affair, but it seemed that he had somehow misunderstood the fundamental definition of ‘pleasant’.