Tacked awkwardly onto the end of a long-unopened file, I just stumbled upon the first work of fiction I ever intended to write. I was twenty-one. It’s been a decade. I’m someone that twenty-one-year-old wouldn’t recognize; I might be someone he wouldn’t like. I know I wouldn’t care for him—I didn’t like . . . → Read More: Negative Space
1986 The arrangement that summer was as follows: Cyril St. John was allowed to assemble every day the yellow and sepia sofa cushions into the two sides and roof of a crude igloo; he could use the twenty-two-inch Pye Teletext to close in the fort’s front, and a second-hand, straight-backed cedar chair for a rear . . . → Read More: Revenants
A voice on the other end of a 911 call says “STAY CALM” while her body is cold and staring up.
Holding my hand. “STAY CALM.” But I need to know, how do I wave fingers and make eyes close like on TV?
The voice on the other side asks an address as I repeat . . . → Read More: Receiver
She is in the passenger’s seat of her car. On break and pushing down her cuticles with the edge of a blackened penny. The oppressive air is a medley led by piss her cat left on his final trip to the vet and winter snowfall which slipped through loose-wound windows, melted and mildewed. The closed . . . → Read More: Manicurist’s Satori
I am a peridot. My two half-sisters: garnet, an amethyst. And together, we’re mounted on a circlet of greening, tarnished
gold. The ring is the sum of her life and the remainder of her existence. It is the single souvenir I took when she died.
And though I recall it spinning freely on my mother’s . . . → Read More: I’ll Have to Put It on a Chain
The collar of a washed and washed, charcoal black rock and roll tee is torn out, exposing her shoulders and back, all covered by a tattooed line drawing of an angel that looks like amateur calligraphy.
She claims to be skilled enough to read an aura from five yards and knows that Rider-Waite is the . . . → Read More: “She Understands & Is Proud”
On the occasion of learning that Baby Jessica—who enraptured the hearts of the nation when she fell down a Midwestern well in 1987—is now posing for adult magazines.
Like Odysseus, she saw darkness that the living are denied.
The bottom was a permanent evening, treading water with Charon.
When they hauled her up they saved . . . → Read More: Five Modified Haiku
When I leave the bar I swear I’m steady, even demonstrate by touching fingertips to eyelids. “See,” I say, “fine motor skills.”
So you let me go and I drive forty minutes on empty predawn freeways, all the time fighting dual urges to throw up, pass out.
I’ll wake up behind the dumpster or—best case— . . . → Read More: DWI
A master plan, a rafter marked with an X. A personal conspiracy as such is a tacit grasp at interpersonality. Your heart on a spit, roasting center stage, with its not so secret aspirations of infliction, a four-valved bomb. Did you know that hope creates exit wounds? Or that repulsion is a pheromone too?
A . . . → Read More: Ideally, It Would Be a Wetworks
I am in coda, running down the clock during an interval of delay. Enduring the seeming ceaselessness, the persistence of life. Between now and then: three doses a day, they tell me, at regular intervals and with water. Then I wait.
Meat goes and goes until it won’t. The body decomposes from the inside out—did . . . → Read More: Prescription