The author of A Man Jumps Out of an Airplane (Sun, 1984) writes of childhood and parents, of lust and death with humorous charm. He is at his best describing Bo-Peep-like Shepherdesses scrapping like harlots, pirates attacking suburbia, or the man, in "Habeas Corpus," who discovers his girlfriend in a pool of blood only to return to the room to find her reading. "Can't you read something besides those horrible murder mysteries?" he asks. All the pieces are short, a paragraph to at most a few pages, and thus many are disappointingly no more than fragments or vignettes. After awhile fathers in soap bubbles or dressed as women, cows wearing lingerie, or safaris down the street can seem tedious, but the absurb remains vividly rendered.