Stories
iPoems
He began singing, the words to a song that played from hidden speakers.
Poem of the Week
A pie can’t go to college, work hard for the grades, two jobs on the side.
Poetry
How can we go on believing each day won’t be the one that flames out?
Poem of the Week
Who know fear is an aphrodisiac & nothing is scarier than time.
Poetry
She whispers all these rocks burning up in the sky can’t be a good thing.
Poem of the Week
We were both up there smoking weed and axle grease, blinded.
Masterpieces
I see the garden far away in itself reflected in the polished spade.
Poetry
I say aria, scale of the day, weigh each square foot she’s kept up.
Poem of the Week
“Pick your switch,” says my father and I’m stepping out into the forest.
Poem of the Week
The citizens of Aunay believed Pierre Rivière batshit, dimwitted.
Poem of the Week
The Renaissance mastered the illusion of depth on a flat plane.
Poem of the Week
Before we too vanish, we hike to where three trails converge.
Poem of the Week
I do not expunge the past but ignite the fuse to a whistling pinwheel.
Poem of the Week
Lucy Liu, you show me I can come to fruition and yellow on my own terms.
Poem of the Week
Once I took it in my mouth, I had to admit pity tastes like sandwiches.
Poem of the Week
The notebook’s cotton pages are spangled with axes and sickles.
Poem of the Week
I didn’t want to start a poem with night where there should be a name.
Poetry
I wanted just to like chemistry, because my teacher hailed from Georgia.
Poem of the Week
It’s life that is hard: sleeping, eating, loving, and dying are easy.
Poetry
you here and these words also here meeting in your shared beauty
Poem of the Week
Why don’t we just get drunk and walk down the middle of Fifth Avenue.
Poem of the Week
I have so many questions for you, for you are closer to me than anyone.
Poetry
Death is our common ancestor. It doesn’t care who we have dined with.
Poem of the Week
Grandfather advised me: learn a trade. I learned to sit at a desk.
Poem of the Week
Imagine first the mighty blast. And then the mushroom cloud.
Poetry
Under Saint Peter’s Gate, I put good foot after bad, and derided, I chased.
