Three excerpts from my M.A. thesis, Dreaming the Boundary (1988).

Fifteen Answers   Then, after work on the first illusory cracking towers began, six teams escaped by sea. Here we could safely count, finding only two webbed fingers and a crooked thumb--plus one withered earlobe. It came to seem that our graying skin must have been rolled out from the same dye lot as the cool smudged sky. Possibly, no losers would have signed on for our trip. But why tempt fate in these late dioxide days.	Fry the Ceiling   Choice loop of frozen images. Hit via clear blue flame. Low strobe off high university moon will be no possible measure oh, not over stretches of pink terrazzo. Statue fear.
The Later Fog   A fork explodes. Plastic tines lie scattered on a slice of roast. The youngest hike uphill, pausing to pry wet woodchips off the path. From seven mountains up, the view is unimpeded. It isn't long before new trees become less strange. The thinner air can change most appetites.

Last updated: April 22, 1997