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I was once a rider of mastodons, a waitress showing skin.

All down my street the new fathers beat the kingness out of the kings.

Our crowns are made of dead hair and get swept out with the trash.

She does not know within a decade she will unload a slug into her mouth.

Keaton didn’t control his emotions; he put them to use.

Lust for power and money undermined their morality and common sense.

The appetite for self-surrender is nothing new in our makeup.

My head was muffled in velvet, my body exposed in an old slip.

Pale dust clung to their skin like the lime he had thrown on the dead.

No one asked that, changed as he was, he do more than survive.

Ivan rolled his eyes, and looked at the sky like someone about to be martyred.

The suite cost as much as a two-pound brick of Panama Red.

For a moment I had the delicious feeling of fitting in without even trying.

Our culture cherishes a fantasy of a certain writerly existence.

If it were fiction, calling the place Newtown would be too much.

She had learned that it was easy to get Sylvi to do things.

Shit happens, you still have to pay up or lose it all, even if it ain’t your fault.

Isn’t it nice to think tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes yet?

Someone’s walk is pretty much who they are, from the beginning.

Carte blanche is bodily as chalk on dark asphalt, so enliven these eyes.

If this farmer worried about her husband, he gave no sign.

Her previous existence seemed unreal, now, a faint rumor.

She’d lifted the plot from a TV show she’d watched the night before.

I was bold, even reckless, in what I wrote, and in how I wrote it.

He didn’t fall in line with our well-established porn-shop hierarchy.

Stripped we are — no mark of wealth or rank upon us. We wear our skins.

Remember that innocence is risky, memory inconclusive.