It is 4:00 a.m. For the past hour, only the hallucinations have kept me on my toes.
Warblers are not beefy like geese; a goose on your head gets irksome, compressing your neck; but a warbler could spend the week there undetected, like a cherry or a shilling.
Potatoes are dropped into a pan of steaming water. Turkey is layered with corn, tomatoes, rice, and cheese. I no longer know whose hands are mine.
It is gray and frigid outside. I have accomplished little at my desk. I have plans, when I return home, to draft an essay about love. So I want my walk around the lake to go quickly.
While spring cleaning, I came across a crumpled letter I had placed in an old Beatle scrap book in my youth. It made me smile.
new year’s eve. i have slept on a love seat with my feet up and my head down and allergy medication so my head is full of blood and rain and driving roads. i dream i write a brilliant story but upon waking i only remember the words “white” “crayon” and “sky” from the final […]
Why—or more precisely, how—does a corset symbolize something very different when it is worn by Madonna than when it was worn by Victorian housewives?
You pour it all into a poem: your skeleton, your bile, your oozing primordial remnant—your private parts. To be told that the fundamental you is not up to snuff—that’s hard murder.
One of the most difficult things about writing is self-editing. Not just revising and scrounging for the proper word, but eliminating description, exposition, and even whole scenes that fail to move things along.
Perhaps lofting your penis toward a cadre of the Windy City’s finest as they descend on your house is not an ideal defensive maneuver.
Joe made plans earwhispering elsewhere with hands in her back bluejean
pockets finding his, his what?, what were we looking for afterall
those barlikely nights?