My Nature Poem

poetry
  My nature poem has air conditioning, but no line breaks. My nature poem doesn’t care what your nature poem thinks; that is its nature. Though it has never met…

Still Life with Apples

poetry
  in honor of Stewart   “Art, useless as tits on a boar.” —Diane Seuss   A poet once said that a poem is a synapse, the space between neurons;…

Desire

poetry
  begins with the sight of someone else’s eyes, voice pulled taut   by a ribbon of smoke, apples of cheeks reddened like seawater   in the evening light. A…

Ceci n’est pas une pipe

poetry
  This is not a pipe, said surrealist painter Magritte about his painting. It looks like a pipe, convinces you, makes you believe that it is a pipe, but you…

Anabel

poetry
  Her name is Anabel. A Turkification of the foreign name “Annabel.” Not ten minutes ago, Anabel pulled me out of the way as the bumper of a bus grazed…

Summer’s End

poetry
  She came to me three times last night. Padded across the carpet +++and hardwood and in a voice so clear she sounded like fresh river water said, +++Mama, I’m…

The Storming of Forestswarm

Fiction
  He called it the new house, but it was very old. The landlord wouldn’t say exactly. He’d said it was built in 1920 or 1900 or, once, “the late…