
There is little room in the basement
for the monster to fit.
But he waits for me. Continue Reading
There is little room in the basement
for the monster to fit.
But he waits for me. Continue Reading
Weird Pig had tried many brands of personal lubricant. He found it ironic that his favorite brand was the generic stuff you can get at CVS called, simply, personal lubricant. Continue Reading
In my Toyota on Route 32
near Farragut, we stopped
for chicken. Continue Reading
In the foaming murk of the sink,
a knife grasped with too much vigor,
and the wrinkled finger cut — Continue Reading
Sisyphus chooses his rock,
perpetuity of ascent and fall,
celebration of a nothingness
that becomes something Continue Reading
He writes a poem about the way that salt
still lingers on his tongue beyond the fact
that love’s dissolve was vaguely no one’s fault Continue Reading
Nervous and fumbling with a crushed pack of Lucky Strikes—my brand, though I’d quit years ago—he reminded me of a fledgling fallen from the nest. Eyes searching the room wildly, tufts of black hair sprouting in cowlicks, beaky nose becoming redder and redder each time he wiped it with his handkerchief. Continue Reading
It’s twelve o’clock, and Dan still isn’t here. I sit on the couch next to the small artificial Christmas tree; six or seven presents I’ve bought him lie underneath it. I’ve bought one for Alice, too, whom I’ve never met. Continue Reading
She was dirty. Putrid. Unclean.
I found her among the stolen parrots
living wild on Telegraph Hill. Continue Reading
This is one spiteful cherry. Continue Reading
I’ve just read a story
about a bear Continue Reading
Imagine rain. Water rises. Water falls. Nice arc. A plop, a plot.
But where’s the conflict? Doesn’t there have to be conflict? Continue Reading