She’s Not As Pretty As You,” I

Death Like A Lover, Caressing Him, Promising Him Peace, Running Its Fingers Through His Hair, Its Tongue In His Ear. She Put Her Own Two Fingers In Her Mouth. Im So Sorry. And Pulled The Trigger

Do You Ever Want To Go Home?' I Asked Paul. He Brushed An Ash From My Face. 'it's The Century Of The Displaced Person,' He Said. 'you Can Never Go Home.

They Dream Of Men With Gentle Hands, Eloquent With Tenderness, Fingers That Brushed Along A Cheek, That Outlined Open Lips In The Lovers' Braille. Hands That Sculpted Sweetness From Sullen Flesh, That Traced Breast And Ignited Hips, Opening, Kneading. Flesh Becomes Bread In The Heat Of Those Hands, Braided And Rising.

I Tried Writing Fiction As A Little Kid, But Had A Teacher Humiliate Me, So Didn't Write Again Until I Was A Senior In College.

It's Not That He Was Going Nowhere, It's That He'd Already Arrived.