Getting Even Is One Reason

As Rilke Observed, Love Requires A Progressive Shortening Of The Senses: I Can See You For Miles; I Can Hear You For Blocks, I Can Smell You, Maybe, For A Few Feet, But I Can Only Touch On Contact, Taste As I Devour

My Face Is Muffled In My Mother's Clothing. Her Rhinestones Injure Me. See: My Feet Are Going. Fish Flee The Forefinger Of My Aunt. The Sun Streams Over The Geraniums. What Has This To Do With What I Feel, With What I Am.

When Book And Reader's Furrowed Brow Meet, It Isn't Always The Book That's Stupid.

For Me, The Short Story Is Not A Character Sketch, A Mouse Trap, An Epiphany, A Slice Of Suburban Life. It Is The Flowering Of A Symbol Center. It Is A Poem Grafted Onto Sturdier Stock.

If There Were Genders To Genres, Fiction Would Be Unquestionably Feminine.