after work everyday two old women wearing tennis shoes would hang outside the liquor store waiting for their bus– these smiling gals in tennis shoes were seen diving hard onto the concrete the day gun shots came flying from inside the store, making it the high point of their dull lives– and like urban birds

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assume a new identity every quarter hour: be saintly, paranoid, the lonely owner of a cat. butter a slice of bread on both sides. drop it. frown at the result and repeat your experiment seventeen times; take notes for posterity. sing a song he doesn’t like. gather dust balls and put them on a shelf

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My name is Nameless and I am a googleholic My friends said I needed intervention, that unaided ungoogling is unbearable, suggested Googleholics Anonymous (GA). (I had to google to find one, though) The GA director said googling is incurable, that once a googleholic always a googleholic, that it was predestined and permanent. (I googled all

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I’ve found that at this point in the evening my train of thought tends to be an empty passenger locomotive dangerously  low on  fuel, more inclined than not to derail  under a slight breeze, and running  along rusted-out tracks held together with duct tape and a prayer. The  engineer is passed out cold and  the conductor’s under the delusion that he

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