By day, Ksiusha Milda is a housewife with a one year-old daughter. By night, she is a blues singer of sorts, a practitioner of this country’s traditional folk song, kale.

A sort of invocation of the open sky, in contradistinction to the dark of the Earth whence came the specimens, a figurative marriage of the literal darkness of exploration and the figurative light of knowledge.

This tanka poem was inspired by news report that the Macy's of "Miracle on 34th Street" fame has a white Santa in front and a black Santa in back.

Aquél que no ve brillar una escalera de Luz surgiendo de la piel de la tormenta, es que se esconde de miedo al pensarse inpermeable a su belleza...Mas luego lavará su rostro reflejandose en los charcos...o hará siembra de sus pasos al caminar por la hierba.De negro se viste…

She did not know what it would feel like, how it would happen … but she knew it would be done. She knew that it would be magical, like nothing she could see or hear through the cornfields or around the markets.

I will miss you, sure, let it be known. The memory, and the dream, both. That familiar smell of Old Spice when someone wearing it comes near. And the smell of Coppertone Suntan Lotion on the beaches of our youth in Chicago. And the pressure of your fing

The dog catcher appeared to be trolling the neighborhood in his doggy death van.

Inspector Paumé hung up the telephone. He looked at Dan Arris, who was staring out the window, shook his head and walked into the bathroom one more time to gaze upon the naked dead body of Claudia Monschaud.

The women in the clinic called her misis luluai – it means white woman chief, it was a compliment. She always wore crazy outfits. High heels and pantyhose. And tight, tight skirts. My wife never trusted her because of that

In the weeks that followed she told haunted stories...reaching out to touch her reflection and finding it clammy, a summer of unending menstrual thunder, a year she spent somewhere safe with polished metal mirrors.

Ships tumble, cars crash, horns gulp water, bombs burst up from the ground in a halo of screams.

The moon is now at the corner on pace for the horizon. On top of a tall business building in Downtown Newark stop a woman in a hood cloak.

The sink spat its water in a most erratic and vindictive fashion, with varying temperatures of discomfort and a nefariously mechanical nonchalance. Her arms are elbow deep in the misbehaving appliance, it looked to us as if she was drowning a small rodent

His senses were heightened. The scratching on the table with his finger nails, intense nervousness, the noise magnified every second, the ball point pen was piercing into his sweaty palm.

“What can I do for you?” he asks Dan, who then rolls up his shirt sleeve to reveal a list of names etched into his arm, with lines through them, like a scrawled timetable on a prison wall. The last name on the list is the only one without a strikethrough