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It was a lousy night to be lost.
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the world crumbles to nothing
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Wine nourishes, subdues memories, keeps eyes dry, and head heavy. We are up to our third bottle. Your head is on my lap. Gray hair uncombed, you feign sleep. My left arm draped nonchalantly over the curvy edge of the chaise lounge, gold velvet with wine…
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It was war without beginning or end.
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Just bring me his head, that cerebral kiln of hot, ruddy verbiage and cadence.
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Sometimes the scenes were benign: a chair draped with a blanket, the smell of black tea. The other ones infected her late into the day: one from a girl with henna hair who wordlessly handed in a form. Patrice saw a noose dangling over a wooden chair and f
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“Mescaline occurs naturally in our bodies, you know,” I said.
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I’m out there all day, all hours waitin’ to go back in the women's shelters anyway. Street... that's where we do do the talkin' and the rantin' and the pantin'.
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Six months later, she was teaching theology / to refugees from est.
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I write to make visible my small/
assertions against impermanence.
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The police states of German National Socialism/
and the Soviet Union are but pencil studies
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sometimes the urge to write
is like the urge to fuck
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I walked along the beach today, and there I saw them all; including the latest lost: little Tiven, Tommy, Michaela & my Paul. Grandma painted at her easel, set upon the dune. Uncle Eddie bent in half, laughing like a loon, Oliver growled…
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Twenty-six years after leaving, I wanted to forget.
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I can never tell if he’s drunk or using some sort of substance or if perhaps his brain just doesn’t fire at the pace that we have come to accept as normal.
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The rooms of our house are guarded by effigies of the saints. Anthony of Padua and the Virgin Mary team-tackle any visitors I try to sneak in under cover of darkness, and for added security, St. Francis of Assisi waits on the dresser with a kestrel on his
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The smooth, sandy bottom feels soothing underfoot. But there are random patches of quicksand, and if you step into that stuff you’ll plunge straight up to your waist in sticky silt that is crawling with leeches.
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The doctor sucks the fetus out of her with an Electrolux vacuum cleaner, and it’s the same one my ma uses to hoover the floors.
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A woman posted a story on Fictionaut about discovering that her husband was a werewolf.
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Being immersed in the all-male dressing-room atmosphere erodes the awkward edges off a man, making him into a more rounded human being
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feeling obligated to write/ is like feeling/ obligated to fuck.
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At Mythos Fine Art, 7 pm
at 930 Dwight Way #10, Berkeley, CA (at 8th St.)
go to www.mythosfineart.com
reading with Rick Ryan.
I'll be reading from my newest book of Poems:
The Six Second Rule
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Once upon a time I was definitely a writer. I told tales everywhere and even wrote them down. Every one was a fabrication woven around a morsel of truth. Many accused me of putting them in my tales and ruining their reputations.…
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Eva stepped out of the hut she and Javier shared and slogged through the mud toward the coop to fetch fresh eggs for Javier's breakfast. None existed. Javier became angry when he didn't get his eggs. Eva slowed her pace as she neared the door. She knew wh
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Okay, I'm here; I'm participating. Enjoying the back & forth with other writers. Waiting for penises and fetuses to move down the "Most Recent" list, but working around them. Well, that's kind of unintentionally visual.This essay, like many other reads on here, is…
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