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Tonight these writers lower their eyes and silence their words.

Staring down the barrel of a black gun I forget I’m no longer just a boy.

The places in between places are like countries themselves.

My grandfather has a space where the tip of his thumb should be.

He didn’t come to arrive, he came to go, and yet that didn’t matter.

Soon I will walk up those same back steps the police took by force.

Who thought to name a four-thousand-pound bomb Satan?

Sometimes they revert to trickery, apple their venom with a smile.

Their hands were acting as airfoils, producing lift, not drag.

You knelt down to kiss her, avoiding, of course, the wound at her brow.

Every step I’ve taken has been from one tongue to another.

Many people remarked upon the similarities between the flags.

Stories are places to live. We live in stories. What we are is stories.

The intention of the writer is irrelevant to the success of the story.

The human heart is far more intricate than any single term can describe.

The waitress looked us over, wondering, I guess, if we were famous.

Home, I thought. This was the new country I had been yearning for.

How can anyone imagine sleep is possible in such a time?

“Who you kiddin? There’s no middle class anymore, we’re all just poor.”

we’ve walked the streets: candied apples on sticks, fish heads.

The thing that illuminated him might have been guilt or outright lust.

I dream we ride together in a Subaru to the county fair.

“The rattlesnakes glow in the dark, man. You should see them.”

Was this where he would grow old? Would it all end in a room like this?

He will, no doubt, be out of this house soon, headed over to Montgomery.

In hushed awe they talk of things to come, a golden time of flowering.

He greets you with a kiss and marries your elbow to walk the path.

It is here I learn the speech of men. The speechless guilt of every swig.

Grass grows, birds fly, waves pound the sand. I beat people up.