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
Destination Zero
It’s been 6 months, 13 days and 4 hours since I last weighed myself. I hid the scales in a plastic bag under some books
Where’s Nana?
She’s lighting a cigarette. The first time pops lost his words, I found her between the legs of a railway, staring at the ocean of
Upon Impact
In the bedroom they used to share, the real estate agent opens the blinds, letting in the mid- morning sun, then walks toward the desk
Ca’Venezia: Your Voice
Your voice alights on my armhair, a whiff of cigar smoke— caramel, and ghostly— “Cities die; let them.” Black thing to say. I patter
This Place, it Echoes
My first real breath of air smells of pine and woodsmoke. It comes to me on a cool breeze, mid-afternoon, a sunny day that