where is the magic at? the spit the dirt or the words?

He hunched low and forward on his bike, his 14-year old self, flying down the dusty back roads of this Great Midwestern Land, his head full of the smell of the algebraic girl he sat behind in math class just hours ago.

Follow the money. It seeks/ the lowest of the low and finds them here/ in an embarrassing abundance.

I wear a white dress. I vomit on hers.

It's eerie. There are no birds. My friend and I take our morning walk in a bubble of silence.

the wind mistook your arms for wings

I assemble myself daily// from the ready-mades/ of a fast talking world,

Imagine the poem written with a pistol at your head.

The rain is no terrible epitaph

Martín stood over the slow, labored panting as if it were a mystery he could not explain. The dog lay on the frayed pillow bed, a knot of fur and skin, in his father’s office. One eye, like an almond floating in milk, stared up at the boy.

We are insatiable

you may meet the man of your dreams.

A woman posted a story on Fictionaut about discovering that her husband was a werewolf.

I realize the kid is still smoking. Shocked, I tear the cigarette from his mouth, throw it to the earth, and grind it to death with the heel of my boot.

Frenchie hustled waffle irons.