I can travel any when. I have. I know firsthand the rules aren’t what you think. An example: I snapped up D. B. Cooper as he plummet—floated nearly splatted not to save him not to trap him but to feed a selfish hungry curiosity.

Transported him to my native era. “Money is useless here. Return it,” Dan said (I call him Dan) and I did, although a teensy math error spewed a few bills into 1980. No prob.
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The horse opera starring John Wayne as Genghis Kahn, miscasting so riotous there aren’t enough rotten tomatoes in the tomato-picking world to launch at the screen, a bomb
shot downwind of a nuclear test site
at a time when A-Bomb tourism was exploding,
when Las Vegas casinos hawked  spectacular views
of neon-bright mushroom clouds, and doomsday-
midnight gamblers caroused away
the countdown to a sunburst
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You are waiting for Her.

(“You are”—What a feast! If you had a mouth, you would chew the fuck out of the words. The wound-up spring of the “yuh,” the catharsis of the “ooh.” It must feel good to say.)

You are waiting for Her; it’s Monday morning; the clock reads forty minutes and thirty-seven seconds past nine. She’s never this late without telling Her boss why. You’ve helped Her write the messages, carefully made toothless with extra vowels and … Read more