the cracks in the concrete look like rivers or highways crossing from the air but only a few feet below me

The world is beginning to lose what little hair it has left. Follicles litter the streets and scrape along merrily in the wind like one last turn of the world defying knob of being and knowing. But the thing I want to say here is how beautiful…

Father, trouble me memory;laconic, idle, some glint on the dark. Recall us to me: what did we have, or what did we lose? Like some late affection, open me again, laugh it out of us. It is not loss I'm looking toput back together, papered over…

In suburban Jeddah magnificent houses on every corner of the avenues are surrounded by high walls rising up from just inside the roadside curb to much beyond taller than a man.

I'm feeling almost better than you know A little bit better than the day before Waking up to a deafening scream Please, please don't hurt me no more Why do I feel like a lost dog? Staring outside the window pane How come I become dark? When the clouds begin to rain…

Deep in Stationcity they began to drum.

It is far into the future when humanity has all but squandered the sustenance of its home, Earth. Because of this, myself and three other candidates are selected to participate in a top-secret mission to retrieve fresh sources of solidified hydrogen from

We’d sometimes find my mother asleep in her chair outside her trailer at the nudist camp when we drove up. She loved her garden there, even with the rabbits eating her young tomato plants. She used to coax the bluebirds down to the railing of her trailer

martyred young women lie in hospital beds

Do you know if you were actually speaking to me there?

My friend and I were talking while having burritos (some days, it is as if all we ever eat are burritos, existentially speaking) and I was looking at the way he inserted that shaft of meat in his mouth and thought him prodigious for his technique

“You’re just like me,” she said, as dawn was breaking. “You like sex.”

You don't see the bruises ... you can't foresee the pain. It's intense, so deep and yet so volatile, in vain. He slapped my head once more while he uttered for the millionth time the same old words again: "You're a loser and you'll never win. I hate for you to be my…

You deserve air.

Long ago, when I was a child, like you, my grandfather told me about the wind. He pointed to a willow whose branches were dancing in the breeze and asked me what I heard. “Just the wind,” I answered. He smiled and ran his hand acr