Sparrow

Clayton

My friend Clayton died just before Christmas. He threw himself from the forty-fourth floor of the Marriott Hotel. Clayton Brooks was a poet, an actor, a taxi driver, a playwright, a drug addict, and a lover of humanity.

Selected Poems

Selected Stories

I went to a theater to see a play. In the middle of the second act, there was a pause. The actors seemed to be waiting for something. A tall man walked up to me and whispered, “You’re in the play.”

Selected Stories

I was having sex with a man, and I became frightened. So I got out of bed and covered him with potato chips.

New Courses

The Tao of Toast: In this workshop, participants will learn to brown toast, butter it, and eat it. A continuation, “What to Do with the Crumbs,” will be offered later this summer.

Village Voices

Best Of The 11th Street Ruse

Finally I stepped out, looking as elegant as I ever have, in electric blue silk, my hair stylishly vertical. R. whispered, “You look so Republican.” (A week later, he finally apologized.)

Selected Stories

I have discovered that by using a very long straw, I can drink soda from my neighbor’s apartment.

A Story

For years I would ask my wife each day at dinner, “Why must we eat this food? It’s terrible — knishes, chicken soup, challah, kreplach,” and my wife would say, “We have to eat this food. We’re Jewish.”

On The F Train

Rising out of Brooklyn / the Statue of Liberty

My Cockroach Diary

“Lately when I open the cupboard doors,” my wife said, “a cockroach usually falls on my head. It’s really obnoxious.” I’ve noticed it, too. Are they leaning on the doors more than they used to?