There is hardly anything left to invest. Make the morning feel too weird. The self-defense class you joined. After the bug crawling across your cheek. Turned out to be a man walking. On the street below your window. Dragging your feet comically to explain. To no one in particular. When you imagine your enemy. An enemy who likes to tell jokes and. Likes all of your jokes. That your town is the town that took.

I am a pig when I copulate. It is difficult to be sincere while pigulating. Always the ghost of my humanity polices my milky being like sties. In the edges of the eye. I am in love and it feels like flesh in flight. When I am in the stinking spasm of love. Swimming in a white mud pool of cupids that fill the creases of bodies. Why is it that when I am in love. I feel as if I am visiting a memorial. And the tiny deformed frogs of war atrocities as if they were a special. But I am not like that.

Perhaps they were both soup spoons and it came down to a matter of preference but this seemed not correct. A few minutes later she remember they were tea spoons and momentarily felt incredibly stupid.

UPPER MIDDLE-CLASS AMERICANS EMULATED ARISTOCRATIC SOCIETY WITH THEIR OWN SMALL, SEMI-RURAL ESTATES. The water is brown from soy sauce on the plates. I have something to do. I have to cut it.

The Work of Artists and Brides. The day the bride left for Germany the father locked himself in his study. His wife knocked softly on the door. She heard from inside the violence of an ink pen, then tearing. Each heart knows its own sadness. What with the ocean and the years between us we will surely drift apart. The bride pulls her sister in. But you are my sister. When reading the work of artists, seek desperation. And they talk into one of the .