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we used to drop her off along the way

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We do it all the time...

Things that blow up

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For as long as John could remember, he loved to blow up things. It started back in grade school with firecrackers and cherry bombs—he would put them in toys, tin cans, shit like that to see what would happen. Then he advanced to stronger stuff, M-80s. Skip and…

Five Acts

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The television was playing reruns of Mr. Ed, but it was hard to hear because of the flock of birds in the palm tree. I’d sometimes imagined the birds coming through the window, a swarming of pink cotton mouths, mawing everything in sight.

The Nude Pianist: A Novel: Chapter 11

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Michiko never telephoned Frank from Washington or Chicago.

SNIPS & SNAILS & PUPPY-DOG TAILS IS THE *LEAST* OF IT! by Ranting Bitch in a Cold, Cold World

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Portrait of the Author as a Poet

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I am an awful poet.

ROMANCE

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In the neon light and barroom shadows,

Coming Home

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How many years has he dreamed he would be home again?

Nothing Ever Stays Looking

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The same, some things you Can't explain, most trees Have felt it go bone dry at the roots before. I've learned to let love Go bye bye. You think they don't Want to answer your pathetic knocks, But they're…

How to Lose Control of Your Pencil

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Real hands

Five

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"It all began with a painting," I said. "Mostly blue. Acrylic. Naturalistic in a modern sense. She was stylized but recognizable, and her breasts were exposed. Everyone could see her disordered skirt. The painter was a fan of Herrick.

Filtering Grace

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...She was my first, my only, she broke me in then brought me down. Alone now, I cycle through hundreds of variations of her image like a flip book narrating some abstract story. That’s all she is now to me, an incoherent melange of tints, saturations, an

Scanner

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The Bearcat 101 was a police scanner popular with a certain type during in the 1970s. Daddy was that exact type. I found the Bearcat in his apartment after he passed. His illness was a common one, the process gradual, implacable. No red and blue…

The Poet's Mark

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Often I want to kiss their lips Drink in every word they have written

Before the Divorce

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Me leaving is not the confirmation of all your fears. It is not. It's because of them.

Panic Pure

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He said, “It was only after I broke my neck and even like maybe a year later that I really started realizing that I had something to say.”

Galileo Worries About His Weight

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I, Seer of the Stars, Cartographer of the Cosmos, / measure my mass, and to whom do I owe this woe...

Improvisation on a few lines by Mark Strand

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I am tripping on poetry. Purple ink drips from my eyes like ergot of rye.

Island Numbers

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an island hidden in the sound holds treasure

My Daughter Belongs In a Mental Home

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Tuonela

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Just a lot of honking and hissing.

Confession

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It is not simple to love in two places, and I have always been a restless woman waiting for signs. Then you appeared walking on my very grave while the stars aligned themselves in patterns of celestial light. I have watched the moon eclipse with you drawing breath…

The Day of the Dust Devils

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The main street has turned into the lowland of dust devils, with the red sun scorching, continuing to serve the living like a giant blood pentacle.It looks like a heathen ritual invoking an ugly looking God with wings or horns, but beneath the whirlwind of rising…

...until love lasts.

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She didn't know why she thought the ring wouldn't fit her finger, but it slid on easily and effortlessly, coming to rest in the old familiar place it always had, the groove that had worn in her finger after seven years of wearing it. She hadn't worn it in a few months,…

Last Visit to Mauritius Island

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So I threw away all my stuff, because I was tired of it, and because I decided I wanted to revive the Oral Tradition. I figured if it was good enough for our ancestors, it couldn't be all that bad, not that I’m really into history or cultural stagnancy o

writing in loops

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Antique pens better allow an old soul to express what needs expressing.

The Fat Man and the Magician

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The Fat Man took a sip of whiskey, then replaced his glass on the table next to his fedora. …

Gilbert B Fumbleberry

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“You know, Miss Viv, I love looking at the sun when it’s almost gone. It kinda looks like an orange and apple squished together. Those are the colors. And the puffy clouds under it look like a bed. It’s going to sleep."

Blame It on The Good Stuff

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That was nearly two years and a thousand smiles ago.

eve

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she lays there wrapped in his baseball sheets