Most read stories

Shovel

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each vertebra is a golden cavalier, brave in upright vigilance; stoic heroes.

Barnegat Bay

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I whispered, “I love you” and then, “Goodbye”

How to Lose Control of Your Pencil

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Real hands

Five Million Yen: Chapter 60

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Thérèse Defarge felt the first drop around ten.

Round Dance

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Cold smoke from the crater Breathes on our eyelashes; The abysmal emptiness held Its breath just once.

The Poet's Mark

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

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

Oed is Dead

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I COULD always sleep. Go "home" now and sleep. My body and my fetus—who complain of this torture—would appreciate sleep. I have something to do that is not sleep. I have something to do that is not sleep. I have to try to wake.

Down The River

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The river was frigid. Branches, empty cans, and used condoms float past me.I lost my jacket when I became snagged on a tree branch. My shoes are gone. My skin is blue-grey, as are my lips and fingernails. I've been face-down in this river for two…

The Walk of Shame

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There it was One abandoned high heel shoe on the sidewalk Could have been Some kind of robbery Though Maybe it was just The beginning of the Walk of shame

The Chair

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His thoughts drifted to when he was a kid, to the monthly trip to the barber.

Confronting the Alien

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I find Vermeer and Bach and feel/ for a moment a shower of my own world’s/ prismatics.

SUNRISE

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There is a false dawn, when night still holds sway, but tempered with promise; anticipation.

High Fives

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They pull up to the curbside and he jumps out to shake the hands in that familiar men’s grasp/shake they do when saluting each other. If that isn’t his daughter it should be, the one sitting in his car, with her door wide open.

Upon a Time

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then all crawl out from the wreckage to begin a dance lasts all night so by morning we'll be tired surprised we're still upright

Follow My Lead

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I ran down the list of reasons she might be calling. She could be bankrupt, having a mid-life crisis, or maybe had a terminal illness. Either way I was clueless, as I had absolutely no emotional bond with the woman I came out of.

Flower Power

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"Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of the angels."--William Carlos WilliamsThere is something beautiful I want to say to you that doesn't seem to make much more sense in a box of clever words like this one. It feels closer to…

postscript

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the sand is hot to walk upon so you must run if caught there w/out footwear. it is like a painter has colored the sea and made parts of it dark blue yet other areas green. little birds jump around the fine grain world and that is when you wonder where they came…

The Train Rolls On

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From my office window, I watch the trains roll in and out of the city. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of passengers staring out windows as the train slows, the ones who have another destination. I've been on those trains before, ones that took me far away from all that…

Waist Deep in Tissue Packs

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It didn't matter if they burned or not.

Five Million Yen: Chapter 66

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Jack Krackenthorpe, Director-General of MI-5, sat alone drinking tea in Lee Ho Fook, a third-rate Chinese restaurant in Soho a mile from his Curzon Street office.

Working Animal

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There is an air of sulfur about you. I cannot tell if / it emanantes from you, or it is the stink of your clothes / from having been in hell for so long.

I Wonder

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I wonder what it would be like to dog-paddle in the middle of the ocean. I wonder how Jean Auguste Ingres got the flesh tones for “Odalisque.” I wonder if bees have dreams.

Seriously?

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Did you really think you were going to cure cancer with that poem?

Condos Dumping Lawyers for Paramilitary Death Squads

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“Honorable condominium association members,” the leader begins. “I apologize for not having a PowerPoint slide show tonight, but me and my muchachos travel light.”

To the Folksinger Just Arrived

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Whisper salutations to your irises

Free Magic Lessons

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" No honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: he may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing."--T.S. EliotI think, okay now I know, the poem's starting to wear off. But I'm alive, at least…

Dark

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Slowly, she eased me into my place where I melted into the dark seat

fields of gold

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The son stood on the porch with his grip packed. "I'm off to mine me a fortune a gold, Daddy." "Boy, there's a fortune in gold right here," said the father, indicating the ripe wheat, glowing in early morning sun. The kid slumped. "Pop, you turn over a rock there,…