I wake my daughter, tell her it’s time.
I wake my daughter, tell her it’s time.
Am I really willing to die for these kids?
Nature and magic collided the first time I saw deer in a field behind my house.
I was loitering in the parking lot when the armed robber ran out of the store.
On the streets of downtown Vancouver, Gong Gong’s movements were more of a shuffle.
“It’s adrenaline,” the psychiatrist tells my quaking body, my chattering teeth.
A week temping in a squat building plunked along a nowhere road in Minnetonka, Minnesota.
When we reached the top of the hill we saw an ascetic in simple robes meditating.
“No, I don’t need a wheelchair,” I say, trying to assert my autonomy, but then a nurse sees me take a shortened step — a near-miss trip.
One moment I was doing stock and the next I locked myself in one of the bathrooms.
He doesn’t see me, the dog walker. Not yet.
After four months of no contact I spotted him in a bar.
I was on bus in Yosemite. The bus driver told us the funniest questions he’d been asked.
My brother and I are giving my dad a shower. It’s a literal shitty mess.
We left in a cab.
Walking along Fifth wondering if I’ll see Warhol on the street again.
The door bursts open. Their voices fight for space on the air waves that carry them.
The department store Tannoy startled me. “Attention shoppers, A&S closes in five minutes.”
She flung her bag in the backseat, removed her stethoscope from her neck, and placed it on the passenger seat.
Just when I’m drinking, studying for a test, finishing the test.