Explore Books

I’m slipping, saying too much; in a night this deep and strange the boundaries start to blur.

I’m slipping, saying too much; in a night this deep and strange the boundaries start to blur.

Around here it’s the dead who are living large. On the living side of the fence we have plastic kids’ bikes wedged into the balconies of burned-out apartment buildings. Mosaics of garbage and broken glass in the mud. So it’s not too surprising that I tend to wind up wandering around the graves. It reminds me that there are always options.

The parking lot is ringed in by poles maybe thirty feet high, and on top of every pole a severed head stares down, some with eyes and some with just gutted pits.