IEnkidu was a son of a bitch. His mother had been the racing wind that howls between the teeth of roof shingles at night. When Enkidu had sprung up high enough to wrap his hands around doorknobs, he was left behind. His mother ran off with the seeds of a tulip in the crook of her arm and bore him strong sons in the four directions. With fingers ( Read more... )

“Watch where you’re going, Duckie ( Read more... )

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The armor rolls on. The armor rolls on and on through the countryside, soft pistons churning away at a metronome heart, turning air to thick butter. Turning exhalation from icy fog to the clot that burdens the back of a throat after running. On and on. All plates of polished ironwood and sun-gilt brass running off to horizon lines in curves. All ( Read more... )