Come down into the stony dark with me.

The beer is a little warm, I know, but the bills are all paid and no one will ever ask you to use a semicolon and we stop the sun at that place where afternoon and evening are kissing like sweet freshmen college girls, sugar on honey, daddy won't know.

When they paw you from the crevices and shadows, keep your feet moving and your eyes straight and say something like you think the wind might say as it funnels between the…

It was raining and he thought of going home, watching from the front door as the spent water ran off the roof and past the front porch thin and delicate, liquid music, wondering if he could make Tuscon by nightfall.

"Brad," from behind him, and then her silk hands gliding over his chest and her chin on his shoulder and he knew he had to go and right that damn minute, while there was still something left of him.

The lifeless sound of rain on leather and the…

I think of prison sometimes, and how I might go there, how occasionally a prison will suck an innocent man down its cinderblock gullet and into its iron bowels and how it can't taste the innocence on the man as he slides in wide-eyed and moaning. It seems there is a named phobia for every irrational fear, but I can find no phobia for the fear of being walked into a stone and metal fortress populated with hard men, geniuses of carnal arts, having done nothing resembling the things they have…

Thanks to Brett Favre, this sicko who is semi-stalking a girl at my office, and thousands of other men who live in a world where this activity is anything other than stupid, for the inspiration.



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I see you, dumbass. You're lying in the bed or on the couch or lingering in a bathroom with your thumb hovering over the Send button and imagining how forwarding this picture is going to flip the switch on her libido, and all the long…

It was an old home, upright and kind, the type that ages the light inside to something golden and truthful, the type that permits only sincerity of motion and speech and it loved the Jensen's like a grandfather, with that smoky old woolen love that warms without weight and heals without leaving scars.

Clara Jensen was so soft in that good light that he questioned for a moment if she were really there, or possibly some Gatsbyesque dragonfly, a figment born from the alchemy of…