Most recent stories

Memories

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I stomped up the steps clearing my shoes of snow. I was wearing my Rooskie fur hat with the ear flaps, and I kept it on when I went inside.

Street Parking

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“Everything is neon, “ I say.

Thanks Again, Target!

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A tanka poem inspired by the CEO's apology and a 10% discount for the 40 million debit card numbers stolen at Target store since Black Friday.

Marie Antoinette's Angel Food Cake Recipe

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honey/she said/with a wink/and a twinkle

The Unbearable Thickness of Meat Loaf

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This morning I found A big black crow Working over a flattened Squirrel in the middle Of the road First day of winter Longest night Shortest day No problem The rest of the year Should be a breeze

Worst Case Scenario

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The voices he hears are God and the Devil and he knows the difference. Therefore, he is not mentally ill.

Endless

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Endless. I find this story.Beginning. To walk.Repeating. Repeating.The Memory. Of snow.Amsterdam. Rivers narrow.Hearts. Divide.Hands. Emboldened.Patronizing. Unpatriotic.Semblance. House held open.Forging. The ties…

The Beautiful Mercedes

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The screen door slowly opened. I was expecting the second / coming of perfection.

December 17

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When she finally arrived it was like a cello playing inside me

Thanks, Target!

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A tanka poem inspired by the 40 million debit card numbers stolen from Target stores since Black Friday last month.

Reckless/ Abandon

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He shows a wreaking disregard for the safety of others

TWO STEPS

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It turns out I know a thing or two about momentum. I know, I know. Like the crescendo of your bicycle wheels. Like the force the florist put on the stems the day Linda died. The way my fingers spin between planetary mass. This is how I know I’m not real

The First Day on Snowshoes

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I can hear my heart in this empty field; I feel it burn against the wall of my chest.

Christmas Eve

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It was Christmas Eve. Time for the ghost to visit. Just one ghost in this story. The ghost of a Christmas past. Just one Christmas for just one ghost.He looked out the window. Under the distant streetlight the snow was falling. He turned on his porch light. …

Regarding Bill Yarrow’s Assertion that Herrick Was a Voyeur (Poor Julia: Violated, but Immortal)

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the observation, at the end, more/ important than the being there—

Luck

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You climb on a stool, drink off the first glass without coming up for air. Man, that tastes good!

You Were This Close

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I don't know if we'll meet again in the sea of light. Circumstances aren't only up to human beings. After all maybe it's all drunk circumstance, but that doesn't answer the blinding question, it only poses some more. This is…

Micro Trilogy

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I start with a morsel of truth, then hide it with lies...

Jolly Old Nick (Black As Hell)

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A tanka poem about Jolly Old Nick being black as hell.

Absinthe

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In a dazzle of emerald softness, it flew out into the breeze wanting for the red apple in the tree just outside my window. The power had gone out, spare change to total meltdown, and the air inside was stifling, thick with mind-numbing languor and mosquitoes. So I…

Me & Sylvia Plath

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The parallels have become too numerous, and too striking, to ignore.

Mon

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It is suddenly very cold. Mon opens his eye. He sees fog, the ground. A skeletal tree. Where am I? he thinks. ... Mon listens. He can hear distant noises through the fog: laughter, …

Bearable

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"Don't be dense."

Deciding to Leave

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...Yet today, I fear / ordinary names for fantastic objects: Sex, Love, Mind.

20 Things I Learned about Norman Rockwell from "American Mirror, The Life and Art of Norman Rockwell"

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His middle name was Perceval. He judged the first Miss America contest in 1922. He saw himself primarily as a storyteller in the Dickensian mode.He claimed to be an illustrator rather than an artist. He disliked driving but loved to walk, and preferred…

Mount Baldy

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The most beautiful possible thing is to deprive all places of their meanings.

Cut His Finger Playing Air Guitar

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How long to make something pretty?

flash

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you're landscape under her flight path, brother one dash in a dotted line

Acknowledgements

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I sit in a café and watch the near palms of summer swaying against the far ridge of hills and young girls walking along in their sleeveless summer dresses. Their shoulders speaking their long history of sex and future children,

Grandma (My Mother) At Christmas

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A tanka/haiku poem about grandma getting run over by a reindeer.