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Mark the Sun

The curtain, lifted: A row of nine dancers came out, four stage left, four stage right, Nunci our star up from under the stage on a lift; eight of them with black hair long and straight, Nunci the prima a brunette in blonde wig, but over the wigs, bathingcaps.


The anchorman says, “In the interest of good taste.” The street reporter calls it a rental property. “A child,” she says. “A man and a woman...who may or may not be husband and wife.”

The Creepy Girl

The day the daughter is dressed in new everything, the father brings home the kids: Kid boy. Kid girl. Shoulder-size, of cement. Blind kids with open mouths and big cheeks. Chink twins imported from China.

The Crumbs

Listen, pigeon. I know you’re bored and hungry and self-hating. I know you waddle around in a dusty feathery loneliness, clucking, disconsolate, revolted at all your peers in your peer group. I know you fly sometimes, but mostly look around for bread crumbs or puke to peck at. Transform yourself.

RERUNS REZOOMED: a serial novel

Jack is spinning spontaneous confessions in order to survive and pursuing the narrative threads multiplying around the bed that has become his prison.

Tragic Strip

coming soon to this space: rip-roaring, white-knuckle, post modern adventures with the META-RAIDERS: Disproportionate Man, Cubist Girl, Doc Dynamism and Composite Lass. And introducing...Frame Boy.

Shitty Mickey

Financial Collapse of October 2008. Mickey wants his money back, but—despite the threats—President G.W. Bush hangs up on him. But what’s this? A call from Vice? The Vice President, that is...

The Unimpressive Story

YOU WANT a story? I’ll give you a story. But I don’t promise you’re going to like it very much. I’m not even sure I like it very much. Here goes:

The Praying Mantis Appraised

The seemingly uncanny phenomena that I suspect are unfolding within the interior of an orange placed upon a metal plate reveals to me my own mental life, as if a spontaneous reversal occurs, long yearned for, between the contents of this orange and my own cranial crate.

My Name Escapes Me

In Florida there is a law that two establishments dealing in pornographic matters cannot be within a hundred yards of one another. At least this was the case some ten years ago, as I remember it. Or maybe it was never a law at all, simply another topic for people to trouble their conversation with around the bar.

Dinner and Opera (from Conversations over Stolen Food)

Between December 2006 and January 2007, we recorded forty-five-minute conversations for thirty straight days throughout New York City. Half of these talks took place at a Union Square health-food store which we call “W.F.” Other locations included MoMA, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Metropolitan Opera House, Central Park, Prospect Park and a Tribeca parking garage. This excerpt comes from the twenty-third talk.


The Brooklyn Rail

OCT 2009

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