Rick had been searching for the Pillings’ address for over twenty minutes, and the hungrier he became, the harder it was to concentrate on the dimly lit street signs, the six-digit numbers stenciled on curbs. Westgate Village was a planned community an hour away from the downtown loft where Rick lived, and its street names…
Exalt me into flesh, each nerve feathering at your right touch. Odd cannibal, incarnate me in you. Touch what’s made expressly to be touched, tap as on a sugar maple, when I say tongue, I mean that quick conjunction of flesh and flame—in excelsis—Deo, Deo,
After the party ends another party begins and the survivors of the first party climb into the second one as if it were a lifeboat to carry them away from their slowly sinking ship. Behind me now my friend Richard is getting a fresh drink, putting on more music, moving from group to group—smiles and…
What I knew was that part of my body was leaving. A pinch of it on the flow out through a bare arm surrendered to the fluorescent scrutiny the clinic. Like a bite, I was told, this tearing into, and yet I did not look, did not care to see the thickening in the vial,…
The Man with the Spotted Dog I was sitting at an outdoor café across from the ocean in Florida when I spotted the man with the spotted dog. I thought it was interesting. Me at a seaside resort and a man with a spotted dog. It reminded me of the famous story where a man…
The air turns red: rumors of sex, death rumors, rumors of rumors, offering their feigned collective sympathy. So sad she dumped her latest husband . . . Tragic that he showed up sloshed (again!)— at the wedding reception, staggered into the cake, face-down at the tiny feet of the sugar couple . . . Poets’…
Tim O’Brien, Tomcat in Love, a novel: In his seventh novel, O’Brien makes a brave and hilarious turn with Thomas Chippering, a professor of linguistics, Vietnam vet, spurned husband, and unrivaled womanizer. (Broadway)
My life ago, in this renascent slum shabby Jews in sweatshops, with irregular papers, wherever they came from, gathered mid-morning around a samovar enthroned amidst rows of Singer sewing machines. They trusted the Republic. They were last seen being beaten with rifle butts onto sealed trains. Their great-nephews are Orthodox extremists; their great-nieces are hash-smoking…
. . . But my mind, gone out in tenderness, Shrinks from its object . . . —Randall Jarrell I want to find my way back to her, to help her, to grab her hand, pull her up from the wooden floor of the stacks where she’s reading accounts of the hatchet murders of Lizzie…
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