No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
I cherish our easy relationship, but I could never keep it going if I lost my job. Sadness squeezes around me like shrink-wrap. I can’t imagine a situation in which my husband would happily let me go off to meet my friend for drinks or dinner in the evening.
I felt warped out, brain-blasted. At one point I looked down, and my hands became my father's hands.
These days, he waited before he interrupted. And he interrupted only when he was about to burst: No way his daughter was enlisting. Nor was she going to Afghanistan, or Syria, or wherever, he added, wiping his fingers on his pants. Given his Vietnam frolic, what was she thinking?
I can’t explain to you how miserable I find this place, which pretty much suits where I’m at—I’m just a worn out, middle-aged cop with nothing better to do than drink myself stupid.
The city that disappears in the fog. You can look down on it from here, where the bay meets the ocean; see the red tube running across the sky, into the vein of society, the dripping sun setting between the towers.
Nestled on either side of a busy six-lane highway, a neglected cemetery quietly ages. Separated from the road by a sagging chain link fence topped with rusting barbed wire, the majority of travelers, going well over the posted speed limit, pay the relic no mind.