Stories
Poetry
Help me, please help me, is the beggar’s refrain on the F train today.
Poem of the Week
I bow to the life being lived in this finch on my terrace this morning.
Poem of the Week
Now he chuckles with the sea, stitched within its timeless jive.
Poem of the Week
Let father be a man walking to the river, ready to bargain with water.
Poem of the Week
Your friends are sniffing glue from a paper bag in the back of an Impala.
Poetry
I love scientists. They’re trying their hardest. And they just want love.
Poem of the Week
I should call my loves while I can to listen to the grackles croak.
Poem of the Week
The dove calls from far away in itself to the hush of the morning
Poem of the Week
It is the night of whores and monsters, but without the killings.
Poem of the Week
A psychologist told me we can train our dreams. I practice each night.
N30B Winners
How do you beat a man who refuses to rise from a puddle of his own blood.
Poem of the Week
Let me remember there’s a door inside each flower.
Poem of the Week
Everyone has something lodged and jittering inside them.
Poem of the Week
Exit the building. Say nothing to anyone. They did. And they didn’t.
Narrative High School Writing Contest
I come home in the evenings to Mother scraping my scalp for God.
Poem of the Week
Ajax can answer all this killing only with the killing of himself.
Poetry
Slice a finger while opening a beer can, fizz the gin high in tumblers.
Poem of the Week
We press closer to look at a picture: a handcuffed boy leaning toward us.
Poem of the Week
The emblazoned vessel performed my false and vulgar life—I knelt to it.
iPoems
And both of them standing there in late afternoon light, looking back.
Poetry
“The doors are closed,” she said, and we would not be flying to Paris.
Poetry Contest Winners
Who needs driftwood when I can bury myself in your loamy soil.
Poem of the Week
Neither fame nor wealth could provide consolation for life’s brevity.
Poetry
My love swims you, your shoulders like hard sails under the green curls.
Poetry
She wears her nakedness like it has been woven from air.
Poetry
If life is an open vein, what’s brave about a sleeve-heart, sweetheart?
Poetry
I want to sleep in a bed next to a man who won’t dream of me all night.
