I remember the whiskey and neon of those days. The sun would set at 7 pm every night over Fremont Street, and I would pretend that my childhood still stood with the El Rancho. There forever remained silver dollar-slots in my head, and the roar of a public winning the night.
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Reservoir Dogs.

Michael Madsen (who played Mr. Blonde in Reservoir Dogs) had difficulty filming the torture scenes. He was particularly reluctant when he was required to hit actor Kirk Baltz. When the cop, pleading for his life, says that he has a child at home (a line not in the script), Madsen, himself a new father at the time, was so disturbed by the idea of leaving a child fatherless that he couldn’t finish the scene.

Last breath we take.

Last breath we take.

Frankenstein is the doctor, not the monster.

Frankenstein is the doctor, not the monster.

Frankenstein is the doctor, not the monster.

Frankenstein is the doctor, not the monster.

Frankenstein is the doctor, not the monster.

Frankenstein is the doctor, not the monster.

Frankenstein is the doctor, not the monster.

Frankenstein is the doctor, not the monster.

Frankenstein is the doctor, not the monster.

Frankenstein is the doctor, not the monster.

So what are we going to do? Arne Duncan? Hello? Where you at?

So what are we going to do? Arne Duncan? Hello? Where you at?


I’ve been visited by three ghosts in my lifetime.

The ghost of my childhood.

The ghost of you and me.

And the ghost of my grief.

One still sticks around—the ghost of my grief. Because





She looks right at you.

She looks right at you.

Recovery Poem.

Alexandra was born smearing tomato sauce over her tiny wrists

from last night’s spaghetti supper as a primer for the other red substance

that would later come out of those very same veins.

Theodore feels like a wishbone that somebody snapped in two equal pieces

before he even got a chance to wish for anything besides his own death.

Cameron wakes up with hangovers feeling like cosmic swirls

and tries to drink them away with more cherry vodka

that just makes him blackout harder than the Big Bang.

Sophia works in a filthy diner in Harlem from 9-5,

paying the bills for a child she doesn’t even want to have,

sometimes even contemplating a double drowning:

double in that she’ll feel the tiny heartbeat of her unborn son

cease before her own runs out.

Nishaka listens too often to scientists that make hypotheses

about how love is just a figment of the imagination,

something the brain creates through the firing of synapses

and the close contact of neighboring cells;

he will grow up believing the feelings between

his mother and father are not real.

Elisabeth hears voices that tell her to join knife fights

and go to bed with men with olive oil stains on their front pockets

and not a single condom in the back ones.

Patrick just wants to be re-named Patricia.

But what Alexandra doesn’t understand is that sometimes pasta sauce

comes in colors other than red, Theodore doesn’t know

that wishing wells are sometimes more effective than wishbones.

Cameron can’t even fathom the thought that one day,

he will find something other than alcohol to fill himself up with.

Sophia’s going to meet a customer at the diner who treats her right

and she’ll keep her son and will hear his heartbeat for the rest of her life.

Nishaka will find love in the way pine needles touch down

like feathers on the forest floor, in the crispness of sails

on ships set for the open sea, in someone else’s hand folded over his own.

Elisabeth will put the knife down.

And Patrick-

Patrick’s gonna be who she always imagined herself being.

Full Metal Jacket—Vietnam.

Full Metal Jacket—Vietnam.

Annalise Gill

are less like temples
and more like biographies
they carry all the
broken hearts, false hopes and cobwebs
neatly mapped in your veins and tendons,
a whole history
tucked away in the spaces in between
your ribs and collarbones.

I know the dreams that you keep.

I know the dreams that you keep.

Funeral Blues.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Could you imagine standing in front of that man?

Could you imagine standing in front of that man?

Cigarette-tax vote canceled, imperiling Philly schools

Me on an airplane.

Me on an airplane.

Everybody knows that you’re a liar.