The big clock on town hall marks the hour, the bells inside ringing and ringing.

Most of the time I can avoid looking at my left breast — or whatever it’s called now — but when I do, I see the little red capillaries above and below the seven-inch scar snaking from my sternum up into my armpit.

On a day I am walking with my cane / in Starbucks / the lady behind me inquires, / from her wheelchair, / if I am recently disabled.

He calls you makhtesh, a word he tells you means the expanse of the universe.

It is the spring of 2007, and I have traded in my solitude for friendship.

I’ve been a plus-size beauty vlogger for the past two years, but I’ve been fat my whole life. Except for the day I was born.

“Go ahead and pee on the floor,” the radiology technician says.

It breaks like this: We hold on tightly, and literally, because we’re young and we’re stupid and because we still want to have hope.

Seeing Dolores walk in, or someone who looked like a Dolores (he’d had more than a few since clocking out)

For six days after the operation, everything was blue.

I'm sitting with Larry at a Chipotle in midtown and his thousand-yard stare tells me I might dial the nihilism down a notch.

In seeking truth, the internet is the most powerful tool humanity has ever had.

A swirl of trash – / I’m dodging it. / A gust of nasty wind. / Now you’re about to be / even more remote.

The purple haze of Jupiter surrounds us in its cool-toned glow.

From my desk, I watch her turn the pages. She is meticulous, each touch / feather-light and exact in her dissection.