It’s not the rain I love, it’s the overwhelming darkness of the city. Pulled under the pale brown-blue like a week old bruise, the noise is dulled, the walks are slower, the pavement is slick with glitter, the people are solitary and humble.

We are all afflicted. All of us. Many people open little black bibles on the subway that sweat salvation. This is not one of them.

This is not a book of poems. It is not a book of stories. It is just words, most of them empty.

When I was a child I wrote a story on a piece of paper and glued a second sheet to the first. I called it a tall tale, and kept writing and gluing until the words didn’t matter and the story extended on for six or seven feet. Those were empty words, whole sentences devoid of any motivation but length.

Here is my allegory for the American life. Here is what I fear: rounded vowels, very few words, too many lines, deep dissatisfaction.


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