No one knows where the wind comes from, but sure as hell it comes. The executioner glances round the reception area. Nods to himself. Function versus form. Anodyne, instantly forgettable, like hotel rooms. Perfect.

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.

I don't look like other poets. / People hardly believe it when I say / "I write poetry, sometimes. / During lonely evenings."

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

If you shoot at them now, it'll be attempted murder or, worse, premeditated murder.

Summer nights or frozen winter, the crackles of his black.

Prayer: Cold prayers in her throat, so far all unanswered. This thing grows steadily, unmistakably, cobbling counterfeit cells and flesh together into an unspeakable mass.

Some nights I want to take my father’s glock / and build my skull a sunroof.

Frank was happy to leave the art show and take the train back to SoHo.

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.

My Mother always said that a storm was death knocking.

Yellows and reds shed warp and weft bobbins of color spooling...

“Damn!” he said to himself, wondering for the millionth time what he was doing in such a sad line of work. Break time, he decided, grabbing his stash box and locking himself into the freezing cold bathroom to smoke a joint. He emerged thirty minutes la

Vundabar baclava

This year, 2011, you bring about my thirtieth year. I'm apprehensive about this, but mainly because my father made me watch "Logan's Run" as a kid...