Most recent stories

Eighth Wonder of Mississippi?

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Lula’s fried chicken should be served on the hem of Jesus’s robe rather than out of a styrofoam box. It’s so good that I kept glancing at the little tray on the steam table, hoping to be hungry again, ready to yank pieces out of the grasp of strangers, to

Lines in Contemplation of a Tragic Accident

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There’s Julie-she’s the cineaste– Au courant woman with a past.

How to Have a Fulfilling Sexual Relationship with Your Own Parents (Part Two)

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Hi, I'm Harmony Korine. I esteem douchebags.

Life of a Dead Bird

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I have the idea but cannot find the words

Dysplasia

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In my mind the village of 300 souls is called Nedoweska, but I confess that that's just a dreamy nickname I had for it as a boy. For various geopolitical reasons it had since become noteworthy as a historical site, though our interest was purely personal.…

Thessaloniki Summer Visit

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What I learned/one summer/in the North East/Thessaloniki heat was. . . .

Three Micros

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The earth moves.

Biscuits and Gravy

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Lips touch briefly at first

Three Winter Sketches in Honor of the Vernal Equinox

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an almost perfectly symmetrical/ Cheshire grin of a moon tonight/ above the iced roof of the house

Loose

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pretty music

The Photograph

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But if he's been photographing her for almost thirty years, there must be close to 11,000 images. During the session, they don't speak. And, after so long, words are not really necessary.

The Business of Shadows

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The flowerpots across the street from Frank’s room at the Place d’Armes Hotel never appeared parched by the late August sun.

from: The Great San Francisco Poetry Wars

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That was when we discovered we could make one shadow jump right through another and come out whole on the other side. Our shadows were indestructible. It was one of those moments of discovery maybe only gallons of pink Chablis could bring on. Or dope.

Man In Hiding

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I answered with my usual economy of words. If someone wants more, they must ask, and he did.

Black House

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I dreamt once a child’s drawing of a house all scribbly black crayon swayback roof crooked chimney. God, do you remember how cold it was that night?

If. You. Speak.

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The one at dusk is not the one you met this morning. That one's gone like a head in the window.

THE CHAINS THAT KEEP

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I usually idle by Spades Check Cashing on 8th Ave. and catch folks that way. The Homestead cops, they moved stations from a little up Amity to down on 7th, which is closer to Spades, but they leave me alone. I've drove jitneys almost ten years. Only been cited twice,…

The Poet and The Escape

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What I have doneOh what I have becomeWhat happened to all I thought I had known?This will not standMy mind becoming rottenThe things I thought were important to meHave all become forgottenWashing my convictions in cheap alcoholFeeding my misery with one kind, then allMy…

Pebbles

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On weekdays the two walked,The man in front and the boy always behind,Away from the borrowed house and the kachina dolls inside.Neither of them said anything.The boy thought of things that just wouldn't come out,and the dirt road was always just wet enough thatThe man's…

Done.

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you dug a hole inside my heart and asked me if it hurt

woke up in 2010//an exercise four years ago

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I am from slow diagnoses, impatience and parents skeptical of New York City doctors. I am from tall buildings, yogurt shakes, and envy for my brother's asthma machine. I am from here, stay away from there, don't get too close, be careful at the edge, the…

Fairy Tale

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Ey’, it’s where I followed him down

13 poets in Hell

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1Paradise Lost is cast into the lake of fire. Satan tells John Milton to rewrite it in 140 characters or fewer.2Filippo Marinetti languishes in a dismal rural idyll. His hand, possessed, scrawls euphonic odes to the moon with a quill.3Henri Michaux floats through the…

Mobiles

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My stories are ramshackle; they lurch along in old sweaters with holes and missing buttons, drinking from mismatched cups and saucers.

Five Million Yen: Chapter 64

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Mulvihill suspected, but could not prove, that the connection to all three murders and the three men was a painting

Bad Ideas I've Had

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Not all ideas are bad, just mine.

Cleaverly Done!

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‘what’s the hassle kiddo, chopping meat is fun, come here and listen to the music of the chop, the sound of steel ripping through air, slicing through flesh and hitting wood, poetry I say’.

Ashes to Ashes

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Day by day people went missing. Reports of the ads being answered with a robocall solution to their problems were at first unconfirmed. Yesterday my best friend told me his emotional distress call was going to be channeled into a free trip to what he call

my first racist joke

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"There's a guy and he's standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon."

Precipitants

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we’ll never win/ the ongoing battle with dirt.