Fiction

Poetry

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

Poetry

The Day of Our Meeting

I dreamed of the day, In the dead of winter, A dreary day, When I’d step off the train And see you there- The day

Short Story

Blind Devotion

I jack off to one of the pictures of her I have saved on my computer and after I’m done I send her a message to tell her

Fiction

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

Fiction

What I Can No Longer See

“I’m thankful I’m not a horse,” Marla says, as she reaches for the saltine sleeve inside her tote bag.