My Backyard Was Replete With

A Single Note, Held In An Amber Suspension Of Time, Like A Charcoal Drawing Of Icarus Falling. It Was Sad And Fierce All At Once, Alive With A Lonely Purity. It Went On And On, Until My Own Lungs Were Burning. “what Bird Are You Calling?” I Asked Finally, When I Couldn’t Stand It Any Longer. The Bird Man Stopped Whistling. He Grinned, So That I Could See All His Pebbly Teeth. “you.

Madness, As I Understood It From Books, Meant A Person Who Was Open To The High White Whine Of Everything.

It Was Sad And Fierce All At Once, Alive With A Lonely Purity.

Tin House Magazine Is A Port In The Storm For People Who Love Language. It Is Unfailingly Excellent, And Committed To Publishing New Voices In Addition To Delivering Freaky-fresh Work From Established Writers.

America's Great Talent, I Think, Is To Generate Desires That Would Never Have Occurred, Natively,... And To Make Those Desires So Painfully Real That Money Becomes A Fiction, An Imaginary Means To Some Concrete End.