When I take you in my mouth, it is all just a matter of identity. I study the weather reports. In a photo essay of Sun Valley Ski Lodge, under her picture, there is this: “Sonja Henie starred in Sun Valley Serenade BUT NEVER VISITED THE PLACE.” Wait, I think hear the phone. The child,…
Asked what he worked at, Oscar Wilde's brother Willie would reply, "At intervals." This kind of innocuous controlled explosion which sends a phrase sky-high the moment before it reassembles, younger and wiser and apparently unfazed, is analogous to the effect achieved by certain poems. It defamiliarizes, yes, but mostly in order to refamiliarize. It glamorizes…
“Sutton,” my wife says, “the girls won't wash between their legs.” What am I supposed to do about it? I think, having just come in from buying round steak that I will try to tenderize with a mallet, then salt and pepper, dredge in flour and fry and serve with green peas, biscuits, gravy. But…
The Nazi within me thinks it's time to take charge. The world's a mess; people are crazy. The Nazi within me wants the windows shut tight, new locks put on the doors. There's too much fresh air, too much coming and going. The Nazi within me wants to be boss of traffic and traffic lights….
Because he'd heard menopause was hard he forgave her the unmade beds, the cold meals— what he couldn't accept was the way she looked: the slip all yanked down below her dress, the hair pasted with grease and sweat to her neck like wet crepe paper. The hospital would have to come and take her….
For Willem Dafoe, Ron Vawter & The Wooster Group 1 So how’s it going, folks?— broke, exhausted, shtuped and duped again. You can take it. Hell, the meaning of life is taking it, in the mouth, the ass, the— o-o-o-h it feels so good. All together now, stand up, bend over and say a-a-a-h. Now…
Twelve murderers are eating their dinners, veal cutlet and walnuts, pickled pigs' feet. Somebody sticks his head through the door. The inevitable question is asked. Not me, says Biter; nor me, says Shooter. We didn't do it, says Choker and Stabber. Nor me, nor me, say all the others. The door closes with a bang….
The man with the muscles He'll kill her Naw, he just ‘instructs' her Opera operate. Opt. Opponents. He-man lift her up and slam her down Will she land on her ass or spine? Hand-become-hammer He gonna break her neck some time No matter how many or whose side Bludgeons. Do harm, make cry. Plow ponies…
Whenever I am leafing through a book and come upon a single hair, for a moment I believe it belongs to the author, and that the book, too, is still the author's, and I must give it back. Then I come to my senses. Usually, it is just a hair from a mustache, and then…
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