According to William James, there are laws in psychology. If you form a picture in your mind of what you would like or wish, and you hold that picture long enough, you produce what you are thinking. In this way monks in certain Himalayan monasteries manifest women out of thin air while balancing…
My father says, “Face it, you live in a civilization of mirrors and sinks,” invading my real room, the bathroom. I pull down an eyelid till I see the pained pink meniscus underneath. I “O” my mouth, poke the mascara wand at my eyelashes, not missing by much. It’s makeup’s…
The fuzz knows the whiz and vice versa. This leads to cooperation. Your average dick is on the shake. A little jack will make him right. Count on a C-note per man per day; if there’s no bad beefs, you’re okay. Once you’ve fixed the bull, even when a mark blows, he’ll give you a…
Whatever it once meant, no one remembers today. Trains run according to schedule. School is in session. No prophets, no candle-bearing crowds. The paper doesn’t mention. The public memory’s clean. The season’s all that remains: October, a liminal time before the souls rise. Once this date was inked on calendars; it guaranteed a parade. Even…
He remembered the dog bite. The door opened and under the host, the hostess, their faces unfrowned, both dressed in brown, the dog. And happy to be seen by a boy such as that. So small. And so sudden. A bite as a blur, a blow, pierce puncture red-wrought and tears. Were there? The highest…
Drunk, her eyes would water and sparkle and she’d hold my jaw in her palm as though I were her child or dog, saying, Listen to me, Douglas. Don’t dare turn into one of these aging bachelor teachers. Then she’d reel off names of half a dozen doddering men in the physics and social studies…
We are not scaled. We do not boast horns, or quills, or wooly coats. Our skin is pliable and thin. No fangs or scales conceal our throats. Worms regrow their missing tails, though tail is all they know of limb. A cat can close her inner eye. Ants hide beneath their skeletons. But humans, scant…
At Tin Mill Canal the left headlight burned out. Darker now: eight eyes blinking at the nailing darkness. The sewage treatment plant and its sooty gray sewage-treated smoke rising openly into pinkblack air went grayer. Near the end now nothing to worry about-did you do that, Rootie?-you saboteur you sly bastard you it’ll take more…
Tires crunch against the crushed stone driveway, and a flash of headlights crosses Kent’s bedroom window, waking him from a light sleep. But he wasn’t asleep, he tells himself. Merely resting, eyes closed. Listening. Just as, when Rose was still in high school, he lay in bed after midnight and listened for the sound of…
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