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on his twenty-fifth birthday, Joel Singer was alone in his house with a prostitute this was not a revelatory experience Joel Singer desperately wanted it to be he wanted J.D. Salinger to burst through the door and immortalize the moment J.D. Salinger does not give a shit about Joel Singer J.D. Salinger is dead Joel Singer did not want to have sex with the prostitute, but he did Joel Singer wanted to have a real human connection with the prostitute the prostitute was somewhat less naïve she took her money and left that is how it is supposed to work Joel Singer knows this now Joel Singer will not make the same mistake again he

Connor MacCailin was born in Florida when he was eight, Connor MacCailin's parents got divorced he and his mother moved to London, leaving his sister and his father behind suddenly an American stranger in Britain, Connor MacCailin clung to his mother as he tried to grow closer with her, she wrenched herself farther and farther away she finally sent him to an all-boys boarding school at the age of twelve from there, she slipped into drinking and promiscuity meanwhile, Connor MacCailin struggled in school learning to behave in class was not a problem he was too intimidated to misbehave he would never ask for help he was mostly left

When you have done anything for long enough, you discover that the thing you love loves you back, perhaps too much so. You wake up one morning and clear away its cobwebs with a hand, squinting as it replaces the sunlight in your room. Downstairs, you find it making your coffee for you, and you are glad, because it knows exactly how you like it. Everything else becomes shrunken in comparison, mere inspiration, fuel to feed its fire. The artist breaks down her lover's hand into a box, a structure of skin across bone. The actor loves to feel hate and grief, imagines the audience sitting before him—just so—as he weeps. And

I am not trying to be funny when I say that the poem I read was literally tasteless, because it was. The astute reader will probably have one of two images in mind: either a pointlessly shocking poem, or of me, the writer, dreamily wadding up paper and chewing on it, lost in meditation, bits of an ode or a villanelle dangling from my mouth before I realize what I am consuming and, surprised at my own absentmindedness, spit it out. While the first interpretation is to be expected, and the second, in a different way, is as well (knowing me), it is neither idea that I would like you to picture. No, when I say that it was tas