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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.
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i am two / one part me / another part them
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She became suited to herself only. She no longer tried in any way to fit, she fought the molds they created and kept moving in her own direction. Often forward, sometimes a bit backward, and she rightly scaled her own Mt. Olympus and there she sat with he
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129554
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He stopped believing in God when he learned how balls worked. Spermatocytes turned into spermatids and spermatids turned into spermatozoa, the transition taking place in tiny loop de loops called the seminiferous tubules which contain at least three…
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129511
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A horn honks, brakes squeal, Chloe’s screaming, pulling at her. She’s lying on the sidewalk. Her shin hurts. Her knee. Chloe kneels beside her. Ring of kids staring. I’m good, she says. I’m good.
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Frank was happy to leave the art show and take the train back to SoHo.
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The scared woman, she hides her flaws from the world.
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Years ago when the smart of it was as nippy as this one.
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His nervous cackle makes me sick - Oh, if only - Times were different - That knife - Would fit so nicely in his back
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Sometimes, you compare your living situation to a prison because it makes you feel better. "At least I have a fridge," you think to yourself.
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state a shambles, mountains and rivers endure./meanwhile, the city hides amidst spring's thick growth . . .
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His granddaughter, Ivy, sat on his knee looking at an old photo album she found under the couch during one of her afternoon explorations. She made him wipe off the dust and cobwebs before he took her through all the pictures, per normal protocol. The albu
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The woman leapt from the top of the burning building. The flames reddened the faces of the watching crowd. The heat pushed them back. The woman hit the ground. The crowd oooooed. If only I'd been a firewoman, I thought, with a ladder as tall as a building and a…
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I want to write a story about a woman who lies to men about her height.
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Picnicking In Mt. Misery Cemetery We breathe the damp shade, plum trees shining in a woodland where there are few wrong things I want to remember-- the steel fence of the power company blazing under an arc light is one. On this day of ripening fruit …
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...she had marked the stars with a blue pen, connected the dots to make Andromeda, Cassiopeia, told us of the gods behind the stars...
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I said he was cold. I said I like cold.
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Ben followed Jean-Claude’s white Fiat. Every time Ben shifted gears, he was reminded of Arris’s punch.
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Her name was Carrie. And yes, it was love at first sight. Yes, she was a client, and you were supposed to keep your hands off the clients. Everyone in real estate knew that. She came into my office and took a seat in the reception area. I had a listing on Cedar…
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Is there a homunculus in my brain guiding everything like the pilot of an airliner?
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There aren’t requirements, only expectations. I’m writing this, because, at the time it happened it seemed strange to me. People might think I’m writing because now, it makes sense, right? It doesn’t, I’ll tell you that much. I’ll also tell you what i
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The outside world will intrude . . .
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“I can't go to sleep,” Jonathan said, laying on the doctor's couch. He counted on his fingers to keep his mind active. “I'll certainly die if I do.”
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129442
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Dee startled awake from the dream, sat up in bed and looked around the room. The dream came back--hazy, yet clearer by the second. Dee had been warning the girl in her dream that he was a monster; that she shouldn't talk to him, should stay far away from him. …
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Contest rules are simple. Two teams of five hunters each are established by drawing from pools of interested volunteers and selected prison inmates confined for capital crimes and illegal immigration.
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If Mad Dog were interrogated by female U.S. forces in a combat-riven no-woman’s-land to see if he was really an American, he couldn’t name the most recent WNBA champion.
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After our first kiss,
a team of scientists
scrubbed away the cancer
of your lipstick.
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Not the torn magazine page, not the smell of ink, not the sweat of palm nor the froth of irish spring
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