A CRYPTID slams down from the ceiling like a soggy futon stuffed with gossip, hitting the floor with a sound halfway between a slap and a whimper, then immediately begins steaming—not with heat, but personal humidity.
The VW bus rocked and giggled inside, snowflakes falling like feathers that night on Providence. Drawn to the clouds of piney smoke seeping from the bus, I couldn’t cover my loud laughter.
Since I have seen the peeled truth of mortality and ecology, and earth’s future is to become Byron’s “lump of death,” my plan is to dance wildly and work on, oh, my God! sounding like Bless their hearts.
Because it is recursive I’ll drown my book in a city of lost tongues Rosy ideologies Troubled newborns The dead who speak to have their voices murdered
I was sweating and the patrons and even Jones were sweating and we were all in short-sleeves, but the man wore a suit. When the door closed behind him, he didn't sit down and he didn't go up to the bar, not initially.
Margaret, though, merely ignored her husband’s fury and squatted to the floor and situated herself alongside the shivering body of the wounded man and ran her trembling hands through his black hair and eased his head into her lap.
It proves my point that you don’t have to see your friends. They’re out there, at any moment they can enter your life. They aren’t celebrities that you search for.
This revolution's being televised. A country raped as tyranny unfolds --these current circumstances? No surprise. The 80s embraced fascism's slow rise --a country slept while specters grafted lies
