The sweet nothings from her lipstick smeared cell phone are the sole reason every window of this bus is fogged up.
On nights I’m angry at you, I record your snores for the day that I’ll miss them.
Sounds just like you and me on an afternoon or Sunday morning, broadcasting our call, your mumbles never on the receiver.
Five rows away from the Magnetic Fields, I can’t help but wonder how our love polarized. But I’ll get over it. http://j.mp/abeSsz
Emily Mayer, art star, taxidermist and ex-chairbitch of the guild showed us her lovely dog’s bollocks. http://j.mp/d2NAwJ
‘You leave that Sandra alone.’ She pointed with her hook. ‘Say one bad thing about her and I’ll crochet you a new one.’
The joy of presenting a midterm for critique and hearing, ‘She needs more entrails, more glitter and at least six more tits.’
The memory of burning the paper plate doused in pizza oil is emblazoned in every one of our minds except the arson’s.
‘No we never scissored,’ she said. ‘But we did open up our ladies like a cape and touch.’
The taste of homemade rendang on a plastic spoon is a rush of memory, spicy and dry unlike the winter night.
‘Is this in the way?’ Chris Jordan asked of his metal canteen before his photo of 2 million plastic bottles, the # we use every 5 minutes.
‘I’m not pregnant, just fat,’ she said. ‘Then you have no excuse,’ said the other encouragingly.
‘You’re way off,’ said the security guard. ‘The building you want is right there,’ and penned a circle on the touch screen in ink.
Tired of the churchgoers, praying around the white van stuck in the snow heap, the building manager hobbled forward and threw them a shovel.
The employers from Hong Kong heard so many great things about NYU students, so they thought as I passed by in my sequin bra.