There’s a certain amount of giving up requisite to keeping your wits about you, certain concessions necessary to remain something in the neighborhood of happy. Your GPS will heave as it searches for the address, whilst you concede point after point to keep everyone’s smile above half mast. Take the…

There is a drip on every step. Black rubber kick plates. She has on a black leather skirt with many pleats. They bounce on tights blacker than her hair. She dies it darker about once a month. Her girl mixes color, with license to dance in exchange for the conversation…

She’s a passionate enthusiast And I’m mad for her zest I’ll bring her here This year To be among giants Floating on For ages after we have gone Sunlight dancing beneath our surface Longer still Silhouettes thrown against green Arms up in celebration

Sometimes he’ll Forget to hold Her hand when they’re Out in the world But he pulls her shirt Rightside out After they make love And when he wakes On Sunday morn He’ll put the kettle on While she still snores Then watches the sun Rise across her face Love’s about The little things The way she smells The way he sings The way that they kiss Beneath parking lot lights

Larry’s afraid. He’s got it in his head that his dick is too small. He has a right to worry, it’s a wee fucking thing. “But it does a job, and does it alright,” he once told a co-worker who had absolutely not asked. Happy Hour invites tend not to…

FUTURE She was smearing globs of whipped sweet cream butter onto a raisin scone cut without fanfare into bite-sized pieces. A pair of crusty, acute triangular ends caked in crystallized sugars were all that remained. They are his favorite; he has a thing for finales. Yet he didn’t intervene in…

A STRUGGLE If you've known him for any length of time you've likely heard the quote or as he'd say, his paraphrasing of the quote. Fred Douglass, no progress without struggle. It’s famous but not I have a dream or four score and seven years or fear itself famous. He’s…

WINTER The enthused clattering of a 5pm standing O had floating its way up into the blue sky bowl, the inverted dome from which the chandelier hung, like death from a refined U.E.S. woman’s slender cigarette dangling from the tips of her black satin gloved fingers. And yet, still the…

THAT NORWICH BOOKSTORE You can’t remember the name of that bookstore in Norwich. The cute one, smack in a darling patch of the city with crooked streets paved in cobble. Shitty on creaky old ankles but damn if those avenues ain’t pretty on eyes of any age. It’s September now…