Typetrigger

not the one

Who created Earth and man
and gave him dominion over
all the creatures of the planet
and science and mathematics
and vegetables and sacrificed his
only kid so that his people may (more)

Poetry | God | Question...

wilted flowers

And from this place I’ll fly unfettered,
my hundred fingers wisp and trailing.

They’ll know it when they call unanswered,
the spoiled milk, the wilted flowers.

Poetry | Fingers | Flowers

designed for it

I’ve got a broad back,
you know, with wide shoulders
and flesh like rubberized trench
leather. My eyes, clear in the
middle, sit like colossal casters, rolling.
My stone-paver teeth, my hydraulic (more)

Poetry | Strength | Eyes

held each other

She held me
up to that blistering
light and I swore I’d
commission my church
in the space where
Pompeii’s copper lovers (more)

Poetry | Light | Volcano

time capsule

In my youth I had that dream of a hoary self, shovel in hand, the marker beneath my thickened heel. In the vision my gnarled fingers flipped through cards and letters, photographs of me in ripped jeans tucked into scruffy roller blades. White Snake’s Greatest Hits, Appetite for Destruction.(more)

Prose | Youth | Time

eyes wide open

It ignites with you
there, on the outs
and me, too, the same.

So on the couch we fly apart
like wispy rag dolls in a fire, (more)

Poetry | Argument | Flight

mostly

I found him there, hunched and smoldering, a Marlboro dangling from his lips.

"Yo."

He looked up at me, half his face crushed in at the jaw, two brown ribs poking from beneath his coat, "Yo."

"So, uh, what's up?"

"Nah," he said, waving (more)

Prose | Daredevi... | One-Arme...

arthritis

"God blessed us with the hands of workers," belted out Mike, laying his hands out on in front of him, "that's what separates us from the animals!"

"I don't know, Mike." I pushed my empty glass to the other side of the bar.

"It's true. That's why(more)

Prose | Hands | Work

rags to riches

Never were the downtrodden so happy as the day a filthy, brown toboggan became haute couture. . .

Prose | Hats | Fashion

nap time

Oh, how mother lies across the day-bed,
her thin fingers trailing the carpet,
her chin more delicately lifted as if to issue
forth the lilting voice of noble Artemis!

And above, on the second floor, my (more)

Poetry | Family | Sleep

harvest moon

From my chair on the bank I watch her scrubbing linens, lifting my shirts from the river's surface, wringing. She prefers the night for this. She prefers to wash in the nude, the cool water about her waist, nothing clinging as she stretches and pulls. So in the evening(more)

Prose | Moon | Autumn

eager to please

I learned the tiny, German words
that made him sit, fetch and heel.
Wrought in bronze his doting name
and hung it round his neck like
beacon, an SASE.
I trimmed his nails with care, (more)

Poetry | Dog | German

going hunting

In this field you dress
your game in stocking feet,
skirts high above the knee and noodle-
strap-open-toe-tassel-braid-glimmer-shine
until the meadows swell with cucumber melon.
Burt’s Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeees. (more)

Poetry | Hunting | Sleaze

poppy field

On the outskirts of Musa Qala
the white blossoms explode.
The thick white petals smooth
over tattered shemaghs,
smooth over Soviet gun metal,
American truck beds. (more)

Poetry | War | Flowers

it's selfish

"Commander Johnston, please confirm coordinates for Sector Delta, over."

"Uh, well, 6 degrees southwest on that map I gave you earlier."
(more)

Prose | Space | Books

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