His mother was a ballerina.

...painted by my mother with meticulous attention...

Evening was drawing nigh and Mosby's horse had tired from the daylong ride.

my second language / to silence / plainsong of / the breast

I would love to believe that this poem might sell a poetry book

If I had one of those, she said, I’d never get anything done. So naughty. Now my bones get goose-bumps too. We were playing in my rock group Spotty Behavior, and she was lead singer in The Young Vaginas, fronting for a band called The Cherry

Mythical Itch and the Unicorns Working Late Jacuzzi Floozy One Erection Diego Rivera’s Poncho Frieda’s Moustache Avalanche Babushka Dolls Photographic Mammary Drool Sir Gruntsalot Uber Rubber Iota Pie Elder Geese Ladylike Rud

I didn’t see the little boy run up to Bandit until it was too late. The kid was about four and was excited to see such a big dog. He reached out his hand to pat Bandit’s head and Bandit lunged at him. The leash was wrenched from my hand, leaving a bloody

Soccer Tease Nerdvana Ballsa Wood Pulp Friction Spam Folder Fetal Position Wayne Newton’s Yacht Late Bloomers Sir Real Geese

Monkey Business Low Ceiling Wagging Tongues Guest Sweet Murphy’s Law Kinda Hot Stopit! Freedom Ring Lumpy Oatmeal Better Not Butter Up Grumpy Umpire

The villagers smash in a garage door with their heads, causing some to bleed from the ears and mouth.

This writers' conference (sponsored by VQR, which had run its banner ad atop the Fictionaut home page in the summer of 2014, which begins to explain both my attendance and this essay) revealed itself as an apt subject . . .

The fog drifted in, wreathing the woman in undulate shadows as kleigs danced in wind and ships moaned. Souchet had come through the Barrio Chino to stand on the pier at the hour when dead cease their ramblings and sleep.…

In the quiet dark, fathers reappear.

Every encounter is a dance, every secret has its key