You Small Mortals Don't Realize

What Passes For News Is Just Morbid Speculation Or Cartoonish Screaming, Followed By Diaper Commercials.

Hopes Were Wallflowers. Hopes Hugged The Perimeter Of A Dance Floor In Your Brain, Tugging At Their Party Lace, All Perfume And Hems And Doomed Expectation. They Fanned Their Dance Cards, These Guests That Pressed Against The Walls Of Your Heart.

"i'm Not Going Anywhere," She Told Me That Night. But Until We Are Old Ladies-a Cypress Age, A Sawtooth Age-i Will Continue To Link Arms With Her, In Public, In Private, In A Panic Of Love.

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.

My Mom Says I'm Destined To Be The Sort Of Man Who Uses Big Words But Pronounces Them Incorrectly.