“Echoing streets melt into dark autumn rooms—melt to black plastic bags inflated by the wind and spinning on playground blacktop like free-floating punctuation...the horizon is just a line and past it there's only black dark...that rolls toward her as she… — Michael Cisco Copy Share Image
Ask anyone what that means, what it means to see a miracle, and they will say that it's something impossible, but they mean that… — Michael Cisco Copy Share Image
“Echoing streets melt into dark autumn rooms—melt to black plastic bags inflated by the wind and spinning on playground blacktop like free-floating punctuation...the horizon… — Michael Cisco Copy Share Image
“The sky all at once is overhead dim and grey, puzzle of blocks sprawl, their own horizon; the city looks like a cemetery full… — Michael Cisco Copy Share Image
Poetry restores language by breaking it, and I think that much contemporary writing restores fantasy, as a genre of writing in contrast to a… — Michael Cisco Copy Share Image
“What it must feel like to lie back with cut wrists in a warm bath, a voluptuous dwindling feeling.” — Michael Cisco Copy Share Image
“Anyone could say that a miracle is something impossible, but they say it thoughtlessly, mindlessly, because most people have such weak imaginations they couldn’t… — Michael Cisco Copy Share Image
“My exuberance breaks things, breaks me. It marches me up to people and elicits from me declarations of love, if only to give me… — Michael Cisco Copy Share Image
“The wind seems to be blowing through the gaps in the conversation like the rushing of empty space.” — Michael Cisco Copy Share Image
Cadavers and spirits are human refuse, and they are absurdly difficult to dispose of properly. When someone dies, a small gang of specialists is… — Michael Cisco Copy Share Image
“She starkly sees her inanimate future blocked out before her right through to her own end—without him... ...and worst of all, she knows she… — Michael Cisco Copy Share Image
