I have changed his name, because he’s a real goat. He’s a celebrity, but I don’t think he’ll sue me. I doubt he’ll be reading this. Still.
She left her shoes on the corner every time she took me up to her room. The desk clerk had been paid off so that she could walk barefoot whenever she wanted.
The boy ran in the street. The boy ran faster than the breed dog. The boy knew a few dogs. The boy had no feeling against dogs.
Gerard sat next to the old woman at the hotel bar, staring at the soft creases around her eyes as if they were exotic etchings.
A man who looked like my mother with a mustache told me I must be on the wrong line. Isn’t this the line for compassion?
You are driving on the lake road toward Canada when an orange moon presents itself to you, plump and juicy as ripe fruit.
It’s nearly morning. The sun climbs its invisible chord and slats the walls between the blinds.
The sky is squeegeed cloudless. He’s seeing a sunbather on the side. I picture her breasts, skin burnt by tar paper on the roof.
Because you saw Midnight Cowboy and Taxi Driver and The Panic in Needle Park, and connected to the disturbing beauty beneath the horror, the dangers, something you needed to see and taste, something hard enough to wake you from the slumber of the small town you’d grown up in, and then Austin, where you’d moved afterward; a place that had frightened you at first.
I tell you I’ve only ever shown it to a girl who I met on a tour bus in Moscow, where I was traveling with my parents. She had bad acne, and she really liked Duran Duran.
Ignis, the flaming wreckage, bubbling rubber, liquified cloth, her skin charred and blistering, acrid smoke, the tiny thunders of survival’s kicks
In the barren cold camp, you wear a dusty cape and top hat, wave my cane as if it were a wand and tell me your dream-stories, one after the next, your words spun and tossed like tethers into the air.