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Journeysexpand_moreYou put his hand around your throat but he keeps moving it away.
On the other side of Paris an exhibit depicts their home, which is nowhere.
Of the sixteen elephants, one—a lady—completely took my heart.
The shapes called them bastard loads. The lazy creations of fools.
I read cookbooks the way I do poetry, with a willingness to be transported.
We have mysterious inclinations. No one can explain it to us.
He’d been lost and tripping vividly on some speckled acid for days.
When I went to Scotland for a wedding, I didn't plan on firing a gun.
He was living like a coyote, out on the margins. But then a letter came.
In the closet: a single hair draped from the one hanger left.
In school, he was called gook, chink, and one boy called him ching-chong.
The woman perused Irwin’s request form. “You can’t go there.”
Don’t hitchhike the Mediterranean coast of Algeria in the summer of ’71.
Try to make order in one direction, and things shoot off in another.
Through all this the sands kept vigil, harboring blood and bones.
On this small island, everyone knows who comes, especially who goes.
I know what my promises are worth, know the worth of material things.
For eight weeks no one heard my voice for eight weeks no one slept.
I looked up from the cave floor to see a guy pointing a handgun at us.
Both dogs were barking now—their barking urgent, hysterically pitched.
Son, do you know of shame? Then you must know that I cannot feel it.
He could smell the bear’s breath, feel the hot huff against his ear.
The wind was like a girl sobbing out her story of betrayal to the stars.
We left our lives behind us as fast as the Beemer’s zero to sixty.
Weird that yellow’s the color of cowardice when the sun never runs.
No one perhaps has ever felt passionately towards a pencil.
All my life I have noted that my thinking was atavistic, totemic.
Up there there’s not a sound except for the wind and the buzzing of bees.
The horror of the waste appalls me. This beauty. This habitation of dream.
What better place to write the great American novel than North Africa?
