Most recent stories

The World is Full

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of birds. The world is full of snakes. The world isfull of mushrooms. The world is full of flies. The worldis full of bombs. Not so many trees. Not as many as you might think. The world is full of flowers. Notso many bees. The world is full of rocks. Some…

our measured treads

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—and the god presiding over all / a four-faced, double-Janused clock / its equal seconds clickt away / ticking us our steps and breaths . . .

Sorting It All Out

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To understand how and when things have gone wrong, it works best to proceed from the beginning and put them in order.

The Dog

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The dog is reading. This morning, as every morning, the book is open in front of him. Well before his master's rise, he had already read the moon then dawn and the clouds. Now the slippers, these that walk here and there. Followed by coffee and the pages that turn. A little…

The Starfish and The Pin Joint

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The two boys walked the long dock to the edge of bay,like scrappy lobsters pointing toward the waves,"The cockroaches of the sea,"his father said,It was the old country"Only prisoners were fed lobster.They stayed in the dampholes."He thought the sea ebbed and flowed like a…

Wanting to forget

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I do not want to know what it looks like when a society walks off a cliff's edge,

Map of the World to Come

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The middle finger talks of many things How I killed the moon But still drank the moonshine And how getting over her took Some bleeding from the soul Maybe it’s the Inner Face of Outer Space That worries me the most But what about the Fro

Market Day

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I'd rather slit my wrists with a Triscuit...

Three Micros

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I asked the hospice nurse about maggots.

the impossibility of self

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To say what is my self to myself? How does one even begin? Then to think that one could take those disparate elements, experiences, beliefs, and aspirations and convey them to another succinctly: it is like my students writing their 5-paragraph essays on the history of…

George Martian (psych eval)

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Take You Me for a Sponge, My Lord?

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Who does that besides Kafka, Arreola, and Steven Wright?

the rest of sleep

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peripheral dreams fall out from the head / the body squirms then burrows abed: / “have you had a good life? you now have less! / —led a hard life instead? you soon will be gone!”

whispered boat

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word boat

The Game Show Support Network

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Those who have lost at game shows meet each week for mutual support. All is well, until they start disappearing in ways related to their ill-fated appearances as contestants.

The portrait

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Gestures we would like to make in the solitude of a café terrace ... Early in the morning ... She's sitting there, seems shivering. Grey dress, red scarf. Her eyes move. I try to meet them - small, vague black clouds which pass, without resting, by mine. She drinks her…

Old Love Passes By Like a Landscape

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from a moving train. The lost ball inthe tall grass still wants for no one. AndI'm suposed to pretend? You got yoursmile from something, not someone. But it took all your long hair in the process. You've been looking for the one true grace, the ultimate…

The Optimist

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If people were more loyal to me we wouldn't be having all these problems.

I Dreamt I Was Vermeer

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I dreamt I was Vermeer For just a little while I took this photo of a criminal A mugshot really And claimed I had painted it From memories of a previous life He looked just like a Vermeer With the light coming in From the side of his fac

Inaction (or a disease of consciousness)

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“... More weighty than wisdom or wealth is a little folly" (Ecclesiastes)


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The garden grew tomatoes.

Two Hundred Words--2

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It stormed the night before Carson broke his neck

Ways of Seeing: Carracci

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I have become interested in Carracci / Ludovico Carracci

Neatly Creased Newspapers

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A thin line separated her lips, like something sketched with a pencil.

five shards of the ancient and the antique

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“Outis of Utopia” my found name! / I'll inscribe it soon as the tide goes out.


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stray fingertips undid your name and wept

The Joint is Out of Time: A Journal of the Plague Year, Day 108

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History in the unmaking.

Attacking Panic

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I'm panicking trying to think of the next line in this poem

The Ballad of the Summer Grains

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It is a day of swallows and grasshoppers, of white clouds and suntanned arms. In the yellow field wheat ears burn, lit by fantasies. One of wheat, one of rye. Summer love, holiday love is in the air. Under the thickness of the harvest, their roots search, call each other.…

Nola Visit

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The little Lady and I drove down to New Orleans to take in the Mardi Gras festivities we’d read so much about.