Stories
Poetry
The pen is mightier than the sword in the fretwork of a poet’s language.
Poetry
The urge to be a tiny bird upon a tiny limb, maybe a bridled titmouse.
Poetry
She regarded the world calmly without the filter of her suffering.
Poetry
Think how you move, how a room changes with your smallest breath.
Poetry
All the bears in the zoo look pathetic. Their eyes glazed, bodies lethargic.
Poem of the Week
But we do despise beauty. We connect it with softness and immortality.
Fiction
All right. We are perfect. Tomorrow we will make a million dollars.
Narrative Outloud
Charlie wasn’t Lena’s first love, but he counted on being her last.
Narrative Outloud
I tell my sister what I didn’t tell my father, I love you. Please, don’t die.
Story of the Week
“Oh, Jesus.” It’s the greatest shame since 1929’s stock market.
Poem of the Week
I saw a bat in a dream and then later that week I saw a real bat.
First & Second Looks
Imagine. I was more fertile than this piece of land. Twenty-six children.
Story of the Week
Everyone they pass is consumed by some desperate interior story.
Story of the Week
We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls.
Poetry
I know which home takes the turning, which mind washes in hot water.
First & Second Looks
I am old now and have not much to fear from the anger of gods.
Poem of the Week
Here: geeky cyber-warriors crunch cheese Cheetos over keyboards.
Poetry
I awakened on my belly—my back a raw field from nape to heels.
Essays
Ike’s voice left behind on the shore as Tina plunges in again.
Story of the Week
I found Lowell’s gun a long time ago. He’s not a genius at hiding things.
Narrative Outloud
My own hunger was for a reduction in the vast space between people.
Narrative Outloud
My own hunger was for a reduction in the vast space between people.
Poem of the Week
My mother’s house was packed, painted, put up for sale—sold.
