Demon Copperhead: A Novel

The body is the original asshole, it can put you on detention away from all pleasures, but still makes you write out the list of its needs, one hundred times.

As long as you haven’t yet asked, you can still have another day with some answer in your head other than “Go fuck yourself.”

I wanted to go home. Which was nowhere, but it’s a feeling you keep having, even after that’s no place anymore.

The hopeless wishes that won’t quit stalking you: some perfect words you think you could say to somebody to make them see you, and love you, and stay. Or could say to your mirror, same reason.

The way he looked. Eyes raised up, body tethered by one long thread to the big stormy sky, the whole of him up there with his words, talking to whoever was listening. I’ve not seen a sight to match it. No bones of his had ever been shoved in a feed bag. The man was a giant.

the tall weed gets cut.

This is what I would say if I could, to all smart people of the world with their dumb hillbilly jokes: We are right here in the stall. We can actually hear you.

Everybody warns about bad influences, but it’s these things already inside you that are going to take you down. The

We were all, Merry Christmas Mrs. Gummidge! And she’s like, “Well, it might be, I don’t know. I been feeling so poorly.”