Fiction
Lascaux is Burning
The first art Was not art, Rather, a color line shot through the dark, No more expression Than a plea for explanation. The grandest monuments
You Look Just Like Your Sister
The red door to my home opened and the fresh smell of warm turkey and cranberry sauce collided with my senses the way Sticky
Opposable
How do I write with these frantic fingers Left index plugs tearing right aorta Right hand holds closed ripping left ventricle I am hopelessly, entirely
Thunder Polka
The thunder polka of a new romance Began today on my left foot, the one Believed to lead suggestiveness astray. True love’s a waltz: it’s
Paper Boat
Three walls of the room are made of tin, but on the fourth side a polished floor opens, running like fabric into curtains of lace,
No Man’s Land
Bloated clouds float above the prison, obscuring the sun. I linger outside the narrow cell window, which is no more than a barred gap in