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I'm not sure if this is breaking the rules of Fictionaut, but here's a trailer of a poetry tour of Europe I did earlier this year. We hope to break it down into webisodes soon enough to highlight the brilliant readings, brilliant local poets and such that you can find not…
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Suzie went on to become an anchorwoman in Los Angeles after college. She had tiny bruises on her feet where she’d shoot heroin since she didn’t want tracks to show on her arms, where they’d ruin the effect of a little black cocktail dress
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Why go outside where the gutters /
are fraudulent and clogged with popularity?
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One afternoon the kids from next door come over. Marion is our age, Jimmy a year younger. Marion's pretty. I can't even look at her.
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We have read your book, but regret to inform you that it is insufficient. This is not to say that you as a person are insufficient, simply that your writing is. When you asked us what percentage of manuscripts we found sufficient, we told you, “Less tha
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I imagine diving into a vat of dried fruit, enjoying the unmistakable sweetness in each shriveled morsel, until I find myself biting into an undetected metal shard.
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POETRY IS DEGENERACY / IS A DISGUSTING HABIT
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Beware of shouting Dress Barn, Dress Barn! when having an orgasm
And don’t tell him you were seeing Starbucks when you came
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Just like real life before poundsigns.
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She followed the husband. He headed north on seventy two for twelve miles, turned off at exit eighty seven b, slowed, turned, backed into a spot at a convenience store slash gas station, lights on, engine running. Precisely twenty seven minutes by her count,…
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When he smashed his plate in my lap, the dog hung around, licking my wrist and hoping that he would get some milk, too. With my luck, he'd jump in the pool, getting grass clippings all over the edge. My nails were sharp that day, I had to cut them, and I did while…
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Mother saw and swung. It was a talented slap. The kind which left white welts and then dissolved to venom in your veins. The inside of your cheek puckered and bloated.
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Julie studied her brush, plucking a strand of hair from it. She looked up and smiled. "My mother thought you were a peeper."
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I feel unlike myself, I think. I've been afraid of notebooks, pens, writing. I've hoped for telekinesis between empty pages and my mind. The hoping leaves me empty handed, and I have nothing to show. I feel unlike myself. I feel the whites of my eyes as…
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I flipped a large cardboard coin
On one side it said
Abundance
But on the other side it said
Scarcity
I went to the store
And began packing everything I could get
Into my shopping cart
But the things that started spilling over
Onto the
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Moore doubted, perhaps, that readers could sympathize with a man who had killed someone for a cause or a girlfriend who forgave him. Perhaps she felt that maiming is (not) worse than murder. Perhaps she decided that the story should be about that.
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We’ll just choke on all our shit
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death spoke in a swimming pool in late june:
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She remembered/Before the menses
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My wife says you can tell the crooks from the cops from the cowboys at the taco truck across the street.
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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…
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"I would like my pictures to look as if a human being had passed between them, like a snail, leaving a trail of the human presence, memory trace of past events, as the snail leaves its slime." Francis bacon “Feminine …
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Even mockingbirds are scarce;
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The Traignarry Light Preservation Society meets monthly, and welcomes visitors.
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The last of your tenuous septum dissolves when you press the nozzle of the neti pot against it.
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My, but how that girl loved to defenestrate! I shall ever be grateful for my obstinacy with never living more than a single story above ground level.
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Creep up behind me one day and prick my skin. I promise you won’t draw blood – for it is ink that will spurt from my veins.
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He keeps saying it,
babbles the term like he knows what it means
and we wince and interject with mama,
mama,
mama,
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