There’s not a thought in the throb. Not an inkling in the coppery clatter of his mouth. There’s only the turn. Only the fist: fast, everything behind it.
She thought he was going to kill her this time, but that was one of the unspoken rules: no killing each other. Also: no kitchen knives, no purpose-built weapons of any kind. No screaming, either. Neighbors, the police—they wouldn’t understand.
In late July, in the mid-nineties, I begged Mom and her fiancé Paul to buy me a big ball at Roses department store.
Showboat said he'd like to take me out sometime. I asked why.
“Because I think you’re attractive, and so we can hang out somewhere other than the coffee trailer,” he said.
It was October, ten
I'm sure a terrible something has occurred at every inhabitable coordinate.
Garielle's longest, most peculiar, most particularized book. A sure-to-be collector's item. Not be be missed!
an art book, collection of poems and photographs, hardcover
