in memory of F.C. (1965–1991), who died of AIDS complications But there under the dark eaves of rain forest, we found Broughtonia, its crimson petals aflame, its yellow throat, veins hinting purple, rising to a sanguine corolla surrounded by sepals as crinkled as mourning crepe. We followed a path lengthened slash by slash, the islanders…
As I walked onto the ward a soldier’s voice rose up tender out of the dusk— I thought you were my sister. You have those Irish features. He was American, a medic during Tet, whose spirit returned now in spurts like flames from a clogged gas jet. Death tanks down the door and your mind…
It wasn’t exactly raining but a little wetness still dribbled down. I had been reading and sorrowing and set out with the dogs as an antidote. They went ahead snuffling in the leaf plaster. Despite the steady snick of my clippers boletus mushrooms kept popping soundlessly out of the ground. How else account for the…
You’re a nurse now and this ward ain’t the schoolbook, so you sedate him, paraldehyde, 5 ccs each hip, and don’t expose it to air, it’ll turn to vinegar, it’ll eat plastic and it reeks, use a glass syringe and DON’T DROP IT. Junkies howl and sweat and beg but they won’t seize and code…
I never thought we’d meet. Now here he is, swinging his arms like a speed-walker. I thought he’d look ancient—almost half a century—but in my telescope, he looks a lot like me: a few less hairs, a limp I don’t like the look of, but not an old man, certainly, though reading glasses dangle from…
The author of this story had other plans for me. In his, alas, typical ignorance and ineptitude, he decided to use me (one more time!) as the heavy, a really bad guy in a bleak and downbeat story that most likely would gross you out or, in any case, would sure enough give you the…
Go ahead. Open it. I think you’ll like it. I made that wrapping paper myself. It’s similar to rubber, but not exactly. You kind of have to peel it off. Do you like the avocado color? I bet you’ve never seen wrapping paper that thick, huh? Oh, I forgot to tell you-if you touch it…
I talk the least of what I covet most, seldom look at what I wish to see, turn my nose away from what smells best, refuse to listen to my favorite opera, La Traviata, even when it’s sung in town for free. The Van Gogh show can’t make me walk the block to view it,…
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