After it is over, I go out into the world, to the café. The flower sellers are setting up their booth outside the glass doors. Classical guitar over the speakers. A soft rain falling. Heads bowed, reading the news. Coffee, croissants, cappuccino. This g

Tucker walked the long and lonely stretch of highway in front of him. The loneliness didn't matter; he had his own way of handling that feeling. The walking, however, was wearing away at his mind. How…

this doesn't turn me on

Against// the mysteries and the dark/ it illuminates and shapes

With some of these guys it was like propping a kid on a training-wheel bike, then steering the kid down the street til he figured out what to do next. Tricks would come into the bar. Roanne had a smile for all but the dregs…

Breaking News: Noted local writer and very minor celebrity Paul Steven Stone joined a growing list of talentless wannabes to bare skin and a hint of nipple in a shameless attempt to draw attention to his current blog posting. When asked how far he would g

In my dream I am the showy leaf, and you are the stem, and you are the strength. I am the leaf turning colors, my face flushed, the fine hair at my neck, and there is the deep carnal twisting around your stem that sends me floating to the ceiling over a

I heard you singing in the bedrooms with me. The down I was fond of, down of your cheek, your thighs light blonde in the light. Out of the dark, sweet bay, were you like a shining rock, shining white, undulating, a thing of heat. I remember you, yes!

Sam tapped the stick against the small mountain of trash bags, a dull thud predictably followed by a dozen rats scurrying out of the mass. He's started to make a personal game of it — seeing how many he can kill with one whack; if he swings hard enough, and in…

Side morning lightthrough hydrangea crab, reachand shine off patio ice

Tomorrow we will eat it in anger.

Love is easy when all is going well, but it is one of life’s profound, humbling lessons that few people love you enough to wipe your butt.

—They turned him into a time bomb. Listen close, and you can hear the tick-tick-tick. —All I hear is snoring. How do you know he was brainwashed? —Because he can’t remember a thing about the experiment. —I can say this: If he can’t remember anyth

Duffy struck an adversarial tone from the outset, offering up a first poem about improper expenses submitted by members of Parliament that ruffled feathers across party lines.

The glamour of living in the Rebuilt Engine Capital of the World is meaningless to the young boys who roam its crowded streets after school, desperately looking for something to take their minds off their homework.