i take a room or it takes me. i bring one suitcase, that is all. i own little. trinkets from the war. these i leave at the bottom of the suitcase, in an old tin box. with mary’s papers. mary’s papers. an old tin box. i am an old tin box. or do i wish i … Read morei take a room
not the shy tourist, hopping up the salty steps of Rome. the shy man, sitting on the steps by the Piazza di Spagna, waiting for your Lothario. transparent feelings stream, stream, stream past: curiosity, desire, a wish to know it all. but all of it as it is not. not tall enough, not strong enough, … Read morea response to John Ashbery’s Abstentions
it’s time for a writing loop. see you on the other side.
“what you got there, Alan?” Sid says. he’s smiling at me but it’s a mean smile. he’s not nice. my Mom told me, she told me, you stay away, Sid’s not nice, and she’s right. my Mom is always right. “nothing.” i shield my bike basket with my body. i know it’s not a real … Read morealan’s bike basket
“let’s get a dog.” “we don’t have room in the flat.” “how about a small dog? we could fit it in, couldn’t we?” “but i like big dogs.” “listen. dog’s a dog. faithful. i ever tell you about the first time i saw you? your heels were too high and you were knock-kneed from the … Read morean argument
The Beauty of a Busted Fruit by Natalie Diaz When we were children, we traced out knees, shins, and elbows for the slightest hint of wound, searched them for any sad red-blue scab marking us both victim and survivor. All this before we knew that some wounds can’t heal, before we knew the jagged scars … Read morethe beauty of a busted fruit
the driver accelerates into a steep hairpin curve and my gut is in my throat. i’m thrust forward on the bench seat, and grab for the hand rest, miss, scrabble, try bracing my feet against the metal legs of the front seat and fail. slide across the bench and end up in the middle when … Read moreblank (on the first morning)