In the far corner of the library, an elderly man sighs over a big dusty book of trees.
Cloudy skies and temperatures holding steady in the forties. The United States detected its first case of the Omicron variant today.
It’s two-thirty in the morning, and a caravan of motorcycles and dune buggies are growling up First Avenue, their engines rattling the windows.
Nobody died from the pandemic in New York City the other day.
We had a pleasant June for a while, but the long mean heat of summer is finally here. Beyond this, I’m losing the plot.
Aliens could land in America and we would politicize them until they became just another round of ammo in our endless red versus blue battle.
They’re calling it the Gorilla Dust Cloud, and you can see it from outer space.
She made a comment about her life that seems like a solid piece of wisdom for dealing with any kind of history: “I need to look back, but I don’t need to stare.”
It’s a strange kind of whiplash, living in a society that’s somehow becoming more sensitive and cruel at the same time.
Tonight I’m going to play Funkadelic on repeat, dim the lights, make bad coffee, and write some purple prose.
We’re still living through a season that requires the suspension of disbelief, but perhaps it’s possible to believe we’re heading somewhere better.
Men with amplifiers delivered gnostic interpretations of the facial expressions of various health officials.
I’m fantasizing about a sprawling network of night markets and bazaars that reclaim the streets and devour the cars.
After sixteen hours of talk radio, interstate winds, and screaming into metal boxes for food, my grip on the world grew slippery.
Riffling through my small box of family memories, I came across a note written in an unfamiliar hand.
