The other problem with killswitching is the craving of what was suddenly killed. Because nothing died. The light wasn’t allowed to dim, it was frantically snuffed. Which means sparks were still visible, even if we couldn’t see them. Burning. Illuminating pockets and crevices of life. In utero. A life that would be best forever wombed. Because, what if it couldn’t… Read more →
(cont.) 156. It’s an all-natural people repellant. Not only am I a six-foot-six gorilla wearing size sixteen shoes, but also my mohawk is longer than just about anybody’s hair. So, even at my day job where I’ve worked with the public for over a decade, people have become this much more reluctant to approach me. For a time, I… Read more →
“The chickens are always in twos,” my 16-year-old says, watching our laying hens grub with clawed toes, then peer at the ground, tilting their heads for a close look, just outside our kitchen window. (I think) my daughter is distracting herself from the homework on the counter in front of her. School is often miserable for both of us, a… Read more →
Seth watches me shiver and hug myself, sliding my fingers over shoulders and forearms. “It was real right?” I ask. “Yes” he answers. I’m wearing a hospital gown, hair up in a horrible bun, pale-skinned, suicidal—or so I said. The nurse checks my pulse for the second time. A breakfast tray sits on a stainless-steel surface near my bed surrounded… Read more →
I scan a coworker’s bookshelves, my back to the revelry of guests I don’t know well, and never will. Ninety minutes is enough time spent steeped in the loneliness of this Mission District Christmas party. I drain my second margarita, bid the host goodbye and dash to Church and 16th to catch the last MUNI train of the night. I’m… Read more →
A woman holding a stack of dresses and jeans enters the fitting room and asks if I’m helping out my mom. It’s 1995 and I’m eighteen years old. I’ve been a sales associate at this department store for over a year. I point to my blue name tag, say, “No, I work here.” She smiles and remains by the entrance. … Read more →
I’m on your bed right now. You’re playing some niche game— your latest obsession. The room smells like toast. You’re heating up frozen pizza, but all I can smell is the crust burning. We’re still young— your sheets haven’t been washed since you moved in two months ago. Your pillow is yellow, suspiciously so, but you’ve bought a new one… Read more →
COYOTE COMES with the crack of a branch. With the brush of breeze through lace. With the mothwing flutter of light on your cheek. With the passing of sand through your hands. Coyote comes in the shape of a question: Trespasser? Or trespassed upon? Look behind, he asks. At crossings you made. Scars you left on the land. Barbed wire… Read more →
My father long-gone, I open one of his books, Bonnard or Vuillard—torn paper flutters to the floor. His drawing of two cows, one little & one big, their outlines wobbly as calf legs. A door opens to that day when he told me stories about a year he spent roping cattle, being a cowboy. We rode through the valley. Cigarette… Read more →