Monthly Archives: December 2019

  Violet Bathroom Dictator He is the violet Bathroom dictator; king of the plastered Hairspray combover.   He is fall October turning chill at 10:09 p.m.; a smoldering  Ruin, abandoned house burnt.   He is tornadic  Aftermath, roiling clouds receding; … Continue reading →

mini-flashes o’ funk The Father   The sun cut a slice of light into his head — the effulgence of stellate light streaming in through the top of the window blinded him — at the very moment the bullet fragmented … Continue reading →

(my short film monday lagniappe for you… take 3 minutes out of your life) Walls You believe… Calypso…   In rising seas, In openings, closings,   In walls to protect him; The journey no longer as important    As the … Continue reading →

  Burn the Witch (from 30 Stories in 30 Songs) He sat eating what he thought was the best chicken noodle soup he’d ever had.  It was chock full of carrots, translucent slivers of onions, noodles, and hearty chunks of … Continue reading →

wish you were here, the insects are legion The dust, the arid heat, the vexillologists.  None of that made any sense there.  It was a tropical rainforest last year when we booked, and the defoliation and climate change left the … Continue reading →

Exiles In the Land of Kakistocracy   I.  A Conversation in the Time of Galamatias: Our salad days are filled with bitter herbs and intractable roots — Not so much a salad, but a melange Of weeds and thistles — … Continue reading →

bitchsplosion “Diluent,” he said at the wall.  Then: “Offing.  Fealty.  Procrustean.”  The wall said nothing.  It remained stolid in its sentry like “Reflection Gray” satin finish. Finish.  Finnish. Finnish:  The wall itself was not, but some fraction of a compound, … Continue reading →

hanoi bell (a black-out poem) when i was 8 they came from hanoi, in the sweltering heat, women delivering babies into the night. my mom smiled and said, “the narrow hanoi streets can’t pronounce ‘hello’ and neon lights laugh at … Continue reading →

notebooks She hated blank pages like she hated the blankness of her life. So she began by making marks – large, loose, gestural sweeps on the page. She then shifted from elongated serpentines to dense clusters of hash marks on … Continue reading →

  Two Views: A Cut-Up Bedtime Story (a found and a cut-up poem) I. X.’s home was a shambles: piles of amber eyes, clouds of fleas and other debris, the ritual heads against our legs; red bodies were discovered – … Continue reading →