She loved her days in school She loved the daily rhyme of measured time And all the pointless rules The weekend peeled away just like an orange rind And left those juicy jewels Of her days in school. She took a job. It was the thing to do when you were 22 To keep your spirits up She had the folks to please and such a jones to prove She hadn't screwed it up. She had no time to stop To think she might have turned her back On the force that through the green fuse drives the flower That saucy pow...

I’ll choose a tattoo that won’t embarrass me in thirty years or three months: for God’s sake not my wife’s name— I’ll look quite the fool at my autopsy after Rosalba finally cuts me with the Ginzu steak knife or pushes me down the escalator at the food court. No cheap religious sentiments either, inked on like a bumper sticker for a Christian radio station— eg, if you’re living like there’s no hell, you’d better be right, like the elegance of Pascal’s wager rendered into a spiritual McNugget....