Kos Kostmayer has written, produced and directed for stage, film and television. His plays have been seen in New York, Los Angeles, Harare, Berlin and, most recently, at the Toronto 2005 Fringe Theatre Festival. His plays have also been presented at a number of American colleges and universities. He has received the Los Angeles Drama Critics Circle Award (Best Play), three Dramalogue Awards (two for writing, one for directing), and the Otis L. Guernsey Prize in playwriting from the Association of American Theatre Critics.
I want to write a Chinese song about this lovely girl, a lioness, a dragonfly.
The last thing I saw he was running down the alley with his knife in one hand and my tampax in the other.
You know the old saying, Nancy -- under capitalism it's dog eat dog, but under communism it's just the other way around.
That's the wonderful thing about life, it gives you so many ways of dying.
People like to believe in progress, he said, which is surprising really, given all we know about the past.
On a scale of one to ten, what would you say - Yes or No?
Yesterday in town a young woman of great beauty was hung by the neck until dead for a crime she had not committed. They say this happens all the time.
I often wonder at the festival of violence and piety that rules our lives.
Tomorrow is another day of dying in the town.
God, I wish I could remember something besides the past.
With a fish in every whisper I come to you.
In the clearing where the great killing had taken place the air was frozen now and still. Sheets of ice burned and glistened in the moon's black light.
A woman bleeds, a book begins, a doctor laughs, a father drinks, a junkie dies, a gun is fired, a knife is thrown, a match is struck, a nurse appears, and someone has to mop the floor.
Someone always has to mop the floor.
She remembered it as if it had actually happened, and of course it had, but not yet.
You have to love how gracefully he reaches past the grief we feel in search of deeper pleasure.
That night everybody in the great White City shared the same dream: each and every one of us dreaming of the green car speeding through the night and striking the black and silver bird head on.
A wound is a mouth without a tongue.
In the beginning there were no clocks. Only animals and trees, human beings and rocks, a savory mix of birds and bees, good sex and violent birth, the sound of people weeping in the dark.
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