Stories

Poetry

I’m afraid to say anything or nothing, I’m white & unalterably broken.

Poem of the Week

The dead cowards my parents on a tear through the goddamn fields.

Poem of the Week

By the time I looked over my shoulder, the sun had already fallen.

Poem of the Week

The woman one row in front of me was an epic series of curves.

Poetry

My son trims a curtain of lashes, immures them into a stray year.

Poem of the Week

The almanac tells them when the moon passes into ghost weather.

Poem of the Week

He sits hiked up, naked to the waist, like a stone in the bedclothes.

Poem of the Week

I shoved them one by one, easy as pie yet with care, just shy of mercy.

Poem of the Week

History howls for direction so I remind him how the hero was lost.

Poetry Contest Winners

Tongue, eye, nose—which has the shortest route to the brain, heart?

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Poem of the Week

It’s so delicate, the light. And there’s so little of it. The dark is huge.

Poem of the Week

You will be a broke blues man with only some story of how you were.

Poem of the Week

I wanted to ride this day down into night, to smooth the unreadable page.

N30B Winners

Life, then, was song and purple font, imagining in words a future.

Poem of the Week

We caress the rough. Sensuous, delectable, and yet sorrowful.

Poem of the Week

The hawk moves out of the way to let a little hot package of breath rise up.

Poem of the Week

I thought my body was mine until it a map anyone could use.

Poem of the Week

Have two children to keep around the house in case one goes missing.

Poem of the Week

Here’s where memory, where waves of light washed over him.

Poem of the Week

Streetlights throw the blinds against the ceiling. It’s 7:00 p.m.

Poetry

Royal baby George is tucked in the crook of his mother’s elbow.

Poetry Contest Winners

Is she dreaming of the rivers soft with codling in her hometown?

Poetry

All over the planet people try to end pain: striptease, bee stings.

Poem of the Week

A boy watching another boy lucky gets an ache. That is a small motor.

Poetry

I have, in the long solitude of my body, asked for something else.

Poem of the Week

However hard you try to make amends, they will still condemn you.

Poem of the Week

We are going south where I know that my father is going to die.

Poetry

To articulate sweet sounds together is to work harder than all these.

Classics

I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams.

Poem of the Week

I’ll see you on the sea, they say, but then they float past on a raft