If you love me, Henry, you don’t love me in a way I understand.
This is where the evening splits in half, Henry, love or death. Grab an end, pull hard, and make a wish.
Here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed.
He could build a city. Has a certain capacity. There’s a niche in his chestwhere a heart would fit perfectlyand he thinks if he could just maneuver one into place –well then, game over.
Who am I? I’m just a writer. I write things down. I walk through your dreams and invent the future. Sure, I sink the boat of love, but that comes later. And yes, I swallow glass, but that comes later.
I know history. There are many names in historybut none of them are ours.
But damn if there isn’t anything sexier than a slender boy with a handgun, a fast car, a bottle of pills.
Here is the cake, and here is the fork, and here’s the desire to put it inside us, and then the question behind every question: What happens next?
Dear Forgiveness, you know that recentlywe have had our difficulties and there are many thingsI want to ask you.
From the landscape: a sense of scale. From the dead: a sense of scale.
There’s a dream in thespace between the hammer and the nail: the dream ofabout-to-be-hit, which is a bad dream, but the nail willtake the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever.
We clutch our bellies and roll on the floor…When I say this, it should mean laughter,not poison.
What is a ghost? Something dead that seems to be alive. Something dead that doesn’t know it’s dead.
He was pointing at the moon, but I was looking at his hand.
There is an empty space next to you in the backseat of the station wagon. Make it the shape of everything you need. Now say hello.