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Talk To the Bionic Hand
“Scientists have discovered how to program intention into a bionic hand so that it will react to impulses from the brain like a normal hand”
Man found being choked by his own out-of-control bionic hand
after han
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Where we’ve penned heart shaped question marks, seeds sprouting bowed heads, a congregation of confused supplicants.
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My name is Mandy and I'll be your narrator today. I'd like to welcome you aboard. You will be reading at the approximate speed of one hundred words per minute. Total estimated reading time will be about fifteen minutes. At this time, I'd like to point out several of the…
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I’ll tell you what’s wrong
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My mother and I are close We talk like friends I tell her about people I'm dating She gets excited for me And she asks how it's going When I tell her I think I'm gay She says nothing She does not ask about the woman I am seeing She does not ask how I am doing …
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LOL? What does that mean? It’s showing up like everywhere.
You make me LOL? Is that equivalent to puke, do you think?
But no, they would have said: you make me want to LOL.
And I’m like HMB, you know, Holding My Belly,
To Keep From Puking. TKFP.
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It was spring. The stepmother brought her newish daughter to the toy store for a surprise.
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Who will plume the chicken?
Who tend
the little flower
of the soft person?
Who steal the pea out
from under the bank
while you’re holding it up?
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I’m casing the place; my boyfriend Jimmy is about to bust in and rob the store.
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His academic nightmare is set in an examination hall, where the student takes a seat at a folding table in the center of the room.
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Sometimes you're searching for a family and you don't even know it. Sometimes a family finds you.
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On shingle of seashells &
Bullet shells,
Ghosts drift along the shore
Of the Black Sea.
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The mystery is in the barmaid's impersonal stare.
It's all there. Recognizable the bottles of Bass Ale
And Crème de Menthe. Glazed oranges piled in a bowl.
Two roses in a small clear glass of water.
A wide gold bracelet on her arm, halfway
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Rose was the easiest lay in the Fletcher Memorial Home For The Aged.
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Schrödinger's Cat twitched and nodded as he picked up the discards, casting his mind back to 2014, when local confidence seemed at its peak . . .
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a thinking man's bird
high above
coated with scent
of life
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IN BOX 12 OF DD FORM 214, the Department of Defense requires a narrative reason for every military discharge. Mine reads: Continued involvement of a discreditable nature with civilian and military authorities.
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I can only see their eyes in the dark, reflected in the light from my flashlight. It's so quiet. I only hear the sound of my own breath. I hold the flashlight steady. Maybe they will think I'm not a threat if I'm not moving. It's a small hope. Yet here we are, at a…
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Sandy lay motionless on the ground, death giving her a look only describable as "ancestral."
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The casual writer uses the work "dick" often. Other words for this appendage he finds pretentious, emasculating, or too much trouble to look up. A dick has simple motives. It is an agent of birth and death, a divining rod for the dark wet.
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my pilgrim tongue
on the map of
your body
seeks sanctuary
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Roanne awoke on the livingroom couch with the usual willies dancing in stomp time inside her. She blinked, looked around. The room was a mess, with clothes strewn hither and yon on the floor and the chairs and TV. On the walls, rock stars,…
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“Life is on life’s terms,” she told me once. Her arm, wrapped in clear cellophane, was freshly adorned with a green-pigmented sand-dollar: a living shell.
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Beautiful kids in sunglasses dashed around as colourful as jars of mixed fruit in the warm air of a midsummer’s night drinking on the riverbank, the bar sheltered under a crusty wooden shack, the sight was stunning in the twilight before the sun rose.
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He thought of his field trip from the previous year, of Prague’s museums, statues, squares, architecture, restaurants, and various modes of transport. The town offered none of these and surely no cinema, no crowds of people, not even an old church.
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Frank cut the tip of his finger off and it sort of shot over to the lettuce bin. The blood pumped out in tiny jets as he covered it with the palm of his other hand and ran to the sink. He pointed it in the sink and turned the water on, he could see…
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He chose her for the way she could, Eyes closed, nose to the air, Find her way North. North was where the wind stopped And held them in its grip, safe. Broken. He chose her for the way, fur against Her collar, she could coax seal…
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If it had a surface, he painted it purple. If it didn’t have a surface, he painted it purple.
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. . . my mind stops idling, kicks back into gear . . .
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When he was 24 he ran away with a girl, forgot about his little office job in the city, went with her to the mountains, just the two of them, to live out a life of romance that a chalk box like the metropolis can’t give you—
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