July 2018
The Everything-Goes Garage Sale of My Love
Someone left the guitar out in the rain, and I don’t think I can take it.
Bird Brain
When I was a boy I swallowed a bird. Its black and yellow feathers poked out from my lips like a toy.
Bishop Trees
She wants to ask the trees some questions, a solemn synod grown anciently deaf.
Poultry Shears
Metal handles, large, the scissor for a thigh or a wing, when feathers flew up, sank like wishes, settled on the dirty floors.
The Last Stroke
They say no work of art is ever finished, only abandoned. But that’s not always the whole truth.
Gentleness
Before the dawn starts stirring far away, unravelling young clouds and lilac-gold, I will sit with you awhile.
Bric-a-Brac
Outside, the barber pole, a swirl of symbolic spirals, and walk upstairs, touching, as you go, the espagnolette.
Genrealities: Five Honest-to-Goodness True Stories of Everyday Humiliations
The literary world loves it some genre trappings. But listen up, kids. Things were not always thus.
Like Writing a Bicycle
Writing is a lot like riding a bicycle. Not because it’s so easy to get back up on.
