My almost-ex was freaking out in the way only men with egos can.

There’s a picture of you at queer prom, in the photo booth, faces alight with total bliss.

The text said: Hey! I think I just saw you cross the street (I’m in the red Prius). How are you?

I suppose I was in a conspiratorial mood when I told you that I don’t always feel like a man.

(Iowa City 1995)

What I think I want, is Inez . . . Fuck! Now it’s a blur. Drawing. Rather, a dream in which I’m drawing.

the history of countries is the story of roaming. And maps are relatively new inventions in the human narrative 

I followed him up the stairs up to his apartment and once inside he made parachutes, wrapping loose MDMA in tissue paper.