No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
Tilt Everything is bricking out. Nothing turns red or black or hits trips or boats up without consequences. By that I mean the man gnawing on his knuckles and his baby daughter somewhere he can’t go...
Mama tries to hug me, but I push her away. Run down to the tracks where I know I ain’t supposed to play. But l do anyway. Everyone does cuz there ain’t nothing else to do in Cadiz, Ohio in 1950.
But there was that agreement, bigger than the people affected by it. It was not a deal that anyone had constructed. There had been no negotiations. It was something that seemed to have manifested on its own and Gwen had no choice but to accept it.
Even with the gloves off, which I am increasingly likely to want, I think that Litbreak can remain evenhanded.
The house we lived in was a remodeled barn. It felt more like a barn than a home. We were the animals.
The Spencerville Police Department gave Rachel Velázquez a retirement party with a cake and a poster-size reproduction of Diego Velázquez’ painting Las Meninas, Ladies in Waiting. It was like the post card sized print she’d kept on her desk for eighteen years but bigger. She’d bragged to everyone that she was Diego’s descendant. She wasn’t. She had the print for another reason. She’d stare at it, imagine herself the king’s daughter at the center of the picture. Safe from any danger, flanked by her ladies in waiting, surrounded by her entourage.