I’ve seen men punch holes in walls. They lead nowhere – I’ve looked, I tried to escape. I’ve seen what happens afterward too.
You interviewing me for Hobart is pretty much the peak of my hustle. Maybe this is me selling out. Maybe this is growing up.
another kind of crime scene
walking to the post office with A
One time, a pair of blue Tattersalls, two Sigma Chis home from Clemson. Two, again: faded blackwatch shorts and a stretchy lavender thong, smelled like Obsession. Just that one time.
For ten years, General Motors knew about faulty ignition switches in its cars but concealed this information.
Corbin was listening to Pete Rock and CL Smooth’s T.R.O.Y. and thinking of Trina McIver when shot inside the bodega on Fourth Street.
I first came to know Miles Klee when I published him in my anthology, Watchlist: 32 Stories by Persons of Interest (a beautiful brand new edition of which is out this May from Catapult with
Let’s go back to the twin indigo suns/ in our eyes. To shooting holes/ through the walls of our skin, one/ metal kiss at a time...
In my country, says the bulkier, pastier, frowning president, journalism students are admitted to university according to their eloquence in abbreviating my biography.
I wanted this essay to be about love. I wanted it to also be about my grandfather and Arkansas and my copy of Ain’t Doing Too B-A-D, Bad, a live jazz record by The Bobby Bryant Sextet.
When I lived in Michigan, I ruined baseball. I recorded every Detroit Tigers game only to fast-forward between pitches, so I could get back to stacks of paper grading, so I could be as productive
I’m just gonna say it. Invisalign is bullshit.
Midway through the school year one of the kids in one of the other sixth grade classes hung himself, so we couldn’t call the game we played in the mornings ‘suicide’ after that.
Come closer reader, please,
I didn’t mean to insult you.
I’ll let you punch me
right in my asking face.
The full moon may strike you
dumb and limp and lost
when bat readies to encounter ball
and you hit it high as the moon--
still the ump declares, You’re out!
before you’ve moved a step from home.
I was wearing my home-made Giants uniform, as I did every day that week, laboriously sewed by mom who was not enamored of sewing.
There’s no TV or radio here, so it’s only later we hear that our guys lost big
at home on Blake Street
I would go back now, though, live in the nervous fidget
before I said I like you & kissed her braces
with my upper lip & bled all over her teeth.
There is something about listening
To a baseball game on the radio
It was the summer of Monica Lewinsky and Mark McGwire and Armageddon. I was on a short business trip to Philadelphia—a handholding, as it is known in the office. I was sent, via Amtrak, to coddle
When I first met Dawn, I didn’t know what a lexicographer was. I had to look it up. Later I admitted I hadn’t even realized that people still made dictionaries.
“Of course they do,” Dawn
Much has been said about that smile. I'm not in the business of describing smiles.
Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity, the Sequel, or Part Zilch of Ten Billion, My Entire Oeuvre is this Film, a Mental Disturbance of a Review, 666 Words in Length
Must we insist on doling out movies by the stratagem?
It is 5:30 in the morning. I am standing in the lobby of a midtown Manhattan hotel, judging the distance between me and a planter because I am pretty sure I am going to throw up. My stomach is in
each pitch lost in the peripheral blink of an eye
