The Wallcreeper

I felt like the Empress Theodora. Can I get more orifices? I thought. Is that what she meant in the Historia Arcana—not that three isn’t enough, but that the three on offer aren’t enough to sustain a marriage?

I wanted to hear my own whispers in the next room and know that I was thinking of me.

She was young the way an actual young person is young.

As I was to learn, reproductive urges will serve as an alibi for just about anything.

People talk a lot about midlife crisis, the momentary stress that arises when you finally slack off. The sublime flash of greenish light as the curtain of the sanctuary rips, when poets start reviewing books and programmers take jobs in quality control.

He was hopelessly in love with his own thoughts, watching them like a show on TV, zapping through the channels.

I saw that I had followed the chief guiding principle of the petty bourgeoisie in modernity and made a virtue of necessity in telling myself my husband was a good lover.

She simply knew she was about to lose something valuable, and like anybody else, she wanted to take the next logical step to make it her own: She wanted to fuck it.

He was uninhibited, as in inconsiderate.

I acted like in those teen feminist poems where it’s date rape if he doesn’t read you the Antioch College rules chapter and verse while you’re glumly failing to see rainbows.

I had to do something, because the minute I broke up with Elvis, I fell in love with him.

(why exactly twenty-somethings are considered so vital to protest movements, I never figured out, seeing as how they never vote and have no money)

From the passenger seat the wallcreeper said, “Twee.

then decided maybe something was wrong with Sundays. He tried Saturday and saw about two thousand