9.9 / September 2014

Harry lost his eyeballs first. Such easy things to lose, we understood.

Janey wants me to teach her to pray. She’s never been to church, only seen inside of one on her TV, so she kneels by my bed and presses her palms together. “Like this, right?”

I picture her exhausted, drained, snoring

We used to cut right down the dirty undies, joke about old farmers and moaning sheep,

The shell on the beach was shit on by a turtle, but the towheaded boy could have cared less.

Young, they wore bikinis: pink and yellow.

They have got dead-beat chicks on reception, ripe from Vegas rehab, necking pink gin.

Nothing brings a man and a woman together like a rocket.

Don’t worry, the barista says slowly to the cowboy. There is not much difference between decaf and caf.

The metaphor I love                                        it is like this:

Here's a story: he goes out to play soccer with a bunch of boys. Three from his grade, the rest from other grades. The boys are late returning, and the teacher locks them out. This is when hitting a kid with a slat of wood ten times in the ass is no thing.

When fairies are in the larval stage, they develop in leaf tubes glued closed with spit from their mamas.

Sheila knows the uniform will be degrading—the sparkly pink leg warmers and the sequined earmuffs and not a stitch more.