Poetry

Brought home one rain-slick day so your sleight hands would have someone else to touch, he is hoisted like a sack over your shoulders, pushed about your middle like a fanny pack, and

In noir fiction, a classic McMuffin would be a sandwich that holds no meaning per se nor is its nature or essence revealed. It serves as a breakfast menu item to “move the

What kind of bellow is this over bodies stockpiled in trucks cooled by—Lazarus’ finger? Put it— out of mind, yes, like the names of the unburied, the shot on the run, in

Ever wonder where you’d be if you weren’t afraid to cause? A path spreads before me but the traffic never stops. When the bucket of pain starts spilling, the chicken doesn’

Have I ever told you I cannot break my mind from what I love? I wake running to the first thing I can perfect. You, a living thing with leaves blushing in my