Writing for a Child. I took a class last semester called “Writers on Writing,” with Sigrid Nunez. The class focused on the literary lifestyle and what it means to be […]
In the summer of 1999, my brother bought a pair of camouflage, old skool Vans from a skate shop in Pennsylvania not far from where my aunt and uncle have a house. He […]
What separated him from any other writer I had ever read is his undeniable honesty, his childlike perspective on the world; and how we, as citizens of a chaotic country, develop mental callouses that prevent us from admitting our flaws and insecurities.
Under a bridge,
Kicking rocks at battered walls,
We smoked a few Winston’s,
Not for the thrill
But out of habit.
The sun dropped below the earth,
And the cloudy waters
Rose to our bare ankles,
You told me tragic tales of your life,
And I shared a few of my own.