"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.

It was in the last expulsion/explosion (theories differ) that we became OneWith. Tsunami. Seism. Zud. All matter cast out outcast came back like a gangster on crack. What did it think it was? Who do we think we are? It thinks we think it thinks…

We walk with our heads down, maybe 15 of us, moving under a sun that has grown to encompass everything. Everything is in hues of orange and red like a bloody eyeball on fire.

Call it what you may but misfortune, bad luck, disaster, adversity and trials of different calibers can hit us at any time.We are human. We experience the ups and downs of life everyday. Out of a job, lack of money, health insurance and other luxuries that some people…

It was in the good and strange middle spring and the rain kept announcing itself on the doorsteps and the railings of the town. As it bounced off of infrastructure and the top of eighteen wheeled trucks, rather than die little deaths, the drops found their way into the…

“Miss Brown had spent the morning (was it just this morning? Or another?) purchasing parsnips and leafy green vegetables from the local grocers, when she was overcome by a wave of nausea. The world went black and she awoke in a windowless, doorless room.

It was an autumn day, late in the afternoon, a Tuesday, when the last murderer died. There was no official announcement. Indeed, she and her crime had been forgotten. Pancreatitis, her cause of death. Quite treatable, the cancer. Nothing could be done for the gene that…

the gambling priest stands in the morning fog/red moon hangs in the sky/the army of seven houses marches over the hill

But I sense a tremor in your soul as well, young friend, a yearning of some sorts.

In the tumbled-down now there's too much material, culled from pretty boys that don't notice me and tattooed ones that do, and I'm certain there's at least one dreamer soaking eyes into me who knows all the twisted lyrics invoking pretty little horses.

A kind of sucking darkness into A kind of noir celebration of despair

"The food tastes kind of...off."

Five micros

A few months back, Bob Delaney, the old Black Hole’s man with the plan (and more importantly, the check-signing authority), hired a young new guy named Gary — who had the unfortunate last name, Indiana — as a geriatric nurse at Bufordsville Retirement Com

"The tundra was as cold and barren as Mother Theresa's womb."