The first art Was not art, Rather, a color line shot through the dark, No more expression Than a plea for explanation. The grandest monuments
Sammie Jo don’t talk much. Her mother like to cut out her tongue any time she speaks up. A bone outta socket. As big as
A dream of a 1920s quasi-candid shot of Debby Harry, mingling graciously among a grandiose Studio 54 scene. Spray the lens of my life with
I have not always had my medication to protect me from epilepsy, to keep my hand steady while I handled boiling grease and kitchen
In our attic, among things, as it seems of past lives, lives a bitter God. When guests come to our house, we don’t mention him.
I. I see a video of women cycling in short dresses talking of how not to flash. They wide-angled their legs, pull the back of