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He’s not the skinny hippie all the paintings make Him out to be.

We’re tired. In bed, we hold hands. We watch TV. But do you want more?

Mama would say beware of the little flaws that make one homely.

There was nothing sadder than the look of defeat in a man’s eyes.

She had yellow cat eyes that she insisted were also blond.

The girls got drunk, danced to Russian karaoke under disco-light glitz.

The window washer smiles a little and licks his lips. Nadine smiles back.

Without a working title, a poem could muddle meaning, confuse purpose.

No one else ever seemed to mind working side-by-side a murderer.

It was the way of the world: everybody wanted someone else.

Dr. Zee knows his son is struggling up out of some chemical fog.