spring green

All we think about these days are life and death.

lawnmowers in march

They were here in January, too, when we returned from New Hampshire. I cried when I saw them.


“English, motherfucker! Do you speak it?”

the enough

Countless flakes falling at once is a childlike joy that will never grow old, but flurries merit an older, wiser joy.


Words in a handwritten letter resonate like sound waves.

the passing of days

I’ve reached an era when everything is about doing instead of being.

form eighteen

The paperwork is far worse than the pain.

how the lille escaped hellville

I am a saint for refraining from shoving pantookas and wuzzles two feet up her ass before I walked out forever. Trust me on this.

music and mania in a blender

I want to hear Bernadette in “Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert” say, “NO MORE FUCKING DVORAK.”