in frightening, incoherent cycles

In Frightening, Incoherent Cycles

Parents chatted, children squabbled, babies cried

some good honest attractive commercials for a product that

said we looked like shit. I was about to wash my face, but

she could hear his laugh every once in a while when she circled

the beautiful and pale face of the sleeping girl over the bouncing

finger games whose rules I've never figured out. "Hey," the

family partook of normal discord at the dinner table. Mrs.

expressed best by axiom, sign, and function. I love Emily Dickinson

thought all the manual labor would calm me down, but

his voice registered no valleys and peaks, as if he were barking

why Momma there's ice cream on this pie, and I say but

I recognize it by the picture on the cover. She puts it

behind the trash can. She was a scrawny black thing, a witch's

letter from Lenny she says was a Xerox (not even personal?). He had

started to tremble. "It can't get in," he whispered.

I know you are so bent on becoming; this is how.