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Grammar and my own impatience landed me in jail. If I had only turned the page, I would have seen my healthy ex-fiancee smiling for the camera on the day of her promotion, very much alive in the finance section. Read the rest of this entry »
—Nevertheless you did kill him?
—I was present at his death.
—Present with a knife.
—Mine was not the only hand on that knife.
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I stole a brick from my neighbor’s house. With ease he had me convicted of stealing the whole thing, all three stories and the land it gouged, and rightly. We understand there is no difference. Read the rest of this entry »
The kid who glared across my desk at me had stolen our petty cash. We’d trusted him with a job and with proximity and access or acted as if we had. Read the rest of this entry »
I never talk about my job but, since you asked, I’d like some extra copies of the paper for my church. So. By the time I arrive, the prisoner is strapped to this crucifixion table here, Read the rest of this entry »
I turned thirty in here, I turned forty in here, now I’m fifty and there’s very little chance you’ll let me out, I know that. What purpose does this serve? At least I’m not at large in the world, I guess you’d say. You should only know what’s at large in the world. Read the rest of this entry »
Tell it to me any way you like but don’t stop talking. Please. I hear what I need to hear. We’ll make a deal. I’ll dunk this misshapen donut into this bad coffee and chew on this cigarette and not get drunk for an hour. And not talk back. I’ll thank my precious life for the sound of your voice; Read the rest of this entry »
He should only hang. He only survived his youth because he had his parents overmatched and lived by their protection. Their idea of punishing Butchie was to limit him to slightly less of something the rest of us couldn’t afford even a little of. Read the rest of this entry »
The secret I felt thrust upon me is nothing I wish to claim; a syllable it was that earned me this room and in itself the syllable was true. From my small town near Pisa where bread was scarce I’ve journeyed here to a room of my own, Read the rest of this entry »
Can a saint keep a diary? Only a saint could think so. For the rest of us the truth is in the life and all biography is betrayal. We have only so much perspective. Read the rest of this entry »