The lyrics say "He never never lied." Is that possible? Or even desirable?
I write this from a subterranean lair packed tight with things: books, CDs, LPs, cassettes, an old laptop or two, and a pile of baseball memorabilia. This is where I do my writing, on a desk among all
I didn’t know how long it’d been since he’d last eaten. I also knew he needed water.
“Hm,” Yoda grunted, considering the foyer, it’s openness, how exposed he was, and what he could do about it. “Hm,” he grunted again.
The last night of the trip, you stay with one of his friends in Vallecitos, New Mexico.
Soon sunlight would be replaced by nighttime. I felt this, the same way my grandma could feel the rain coming on.
When my mother built me
again, she did not wait for sobs
to pass. She left clasps undone
then wept in her bedroom.
I tried to reach for the gown
but my fingers mumbled back hair
into metal
He tells them, pays for the burgers and, as they drive to the mall, as if to encourage them, a general addressing his troops, he tells them about fights with broken bottles, about fighting the black kids because he was white, the Italian and Polish kids because he was Jewish, the rich kids because he was poor.
I don't notice anything when the television is on. A bomb could go off in my kitchen and I wouldn't notice the wreckage until the next commercial break.
the man who touches you also touches
the other women of the city, this special
man who you chose to be your first man
even after you’ve met so many men who
wanted to know you as a woman
When I wasn’t on the road, I ate lunch at the diner just to watch Cathy polish the cutlery.
Maybe ‘white trash American girl’ is a compliment over there?
Like a punch. Like Margera. BAM.
The Brooklyn Academy of Music is smaller than the Met and cheaper than the Met ($28 versus $40). It forms a triangle between the Barclays Center and a huge Apple
Well, at least we aren't just dead, she said.
What?
At least we aren't dead, right?
Yeah.
When our baby arrives I am feeling a funny mix of elation and terror – what have we done?
My mother crooned “Poetry Man” in the car between errands and have-to-be’s as in, “We have to be home by six,” or, “You have to be at piano rehearsal at three thirty.”
A woman at our airport gate is eating a box of powdered donut holes and not licking her lips. She is capable of licking her lips, I know this because only after she finishes exactly three donut holes
Sometimes we’d see a slip of moon hung in velvety sky, and we’d find ourselves crying for no good reason, or maybe every reason that we could think of.
Bullock & Allan, Garret & Twain, Star & Paisley, Swearengen & Brooks, Tolliver & Dunn
A Portrait Series Paralleling Characters in HBO’s Deadwood with Contemporaneous Pop Country Musician
I was halfway to the Drew Barrymore/Gwen Stefani hybrid image of my dreams; a few more years, I thought, and I’ll work at the Coffee Beanery at the mall.
One Night We Drove Through Yellowstone
I dreamt of a white bear last night,
like the ones in the rainforests
of Alaska. Landlocked, we dreamt
of whispering to them, shaking off
one
The man I love who does not love me back sends me someone else’s tweet. The only text is a hashtag: Notre Dame. The video hasn’t loaded. A week before, the Notre Dame women’s basketball team made it
If you were to sit down and watch an American beer commercial and then a Canadian one, they wouldn't be that different. Replace the eagle with a beaver.
We know who has her period and who is still waiting. If a girl takes her backpack to the bathroom or sits pool-side in swim class, she has her period. So do the girls who—when they ask Can I go to the bathroom? and the teacher says, No—say But I really need to go.
