Jared punches like dang. Gouges, arm-bars. Breaks windows at theme parties.

For the past month Wrat, a man removed from the dogtooth of language, had been hearing a scratching, needling noise clip the outmost walls.

I put on underpants and pants and socks and shirts in the same sequence every day

I was retroactively making a story out of a time in my life when I was interested in writing, wanted to ‘be a writer’, but didn’t necessarily have the skills or direction to actually pull it off.

When he sees me seeing him, he starts to cry.

Do you think

you’ll be around for dinner tonight?

Susan’s making shepherd’s pie.

On the job site one morning they found a dead squirrel. There was no indication of what had killed it.

In theory, Hell in winter must be great.

But the true malevolence of Majka’s world—the thing that traps her characters in a state of lifelong discontent—most often manifests in mundane hauntings: regret and remorse, vanished love and vanished youth, feelings of dislocation and the inability to belong

I understand this. This is what made me psychic. This is what makes images arrive on the doorstep with a bindle over the shoulder made of red bandana. Each man is the last man.

When my team scores a touchdown, I have a few seconds in the spotlight to do my dance, to captivate the crowd. I pretend in front of my flock that I don’t enjoy it but I do. I am more vain than I let on

a glass/ bottle containing/ the letter I/ wrote: it starts/ with the birthday/ of your first/ born

I’d’ve led him by the wrist. Still but blinding four pm/ back home blazed against the glass.

II. 
A girl and a girl are in love or planning to be.

Christopher Boucher’s new novel, Golden Delicious (Melville House), is a kind of referendum on all we presently hold dear in fiction. Its emotional hold on the reader is very strong, but its avant-garde methods critique those special effects by explaining what they’re doing to your feelings while they do it, which somehow only makes the book more sad.

Under haze of junior-prom fog machines,
       my cells pulsed with
              non-senescence

Your hand had never fully formed, a shadow made of lint & oil. Decades pass, divination is still predicated on how long a candle lasts, how long tea sits in a cup. Coffee? I never touch the stuff.

Acting isn’t enough anymore. They should have to hurt themselves.

Please don't leave me to my joysticks!

Mama Vincenzo’s Ristorante Italiano is located in hell

I have a thing for droopy-eyed men.

here were girls who sank/ a thousand leagues beneath his hips/ and never bobbed back for air. I came ashore/ in a body of my own, crooked gate/ and piano fingers

Bill and Mary were leaving because Mary felt old, when a woman’s hand fell on his shoulder.

A sky
like an enormous
Friedrich Nietzsche-looking
manhole cover
tries to explain your mind
to you.

i challenge my body/ wearing all white/ i lay down/ only to need to sit up/ i lay down i wish i was/ my own alarm

I won’t apologize for trying to forget the days I spent with you, riding pillion on your Honda, inhaling Bombay’s foggy polluted streets, sitting on rickety wooden benches of hole-in-the-wall Indo-Chinese joints, slurping Szechwan noodles and sipping Tom Yum soup, strolling on Juhu’s wet sandy beaches, letting the ocean wash our feet.