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Headlights bare a suture of earth, a wooden shack. A bat like darkness wrestless for some destination. The boy, picked-up, asks weren’t there stars made-up a lover there someplace in the night.

In The Museum of the History of Drugs

The old stretch limo screeched to a stop at Christie and Rivington, hurling Morty and Eve against the bullet-proof partition. The Russian driver lit a cigarette. He removed his upper row of gold teeth and carefully polished them with his handkerchief.

Asian Voyages

sweltering night in Hong Kong and you’re staying in a crowded deteriorating high-rise on the Kowloon side of the harbor that’s occupied by poor Indian migrant workers and their countless fetid and windowless restaurants. Everything is filthy.


The Brooklyn Rail


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