The most entertaining thing about Miguel is that when he was 13 he dislocated his shoulder playing basketball and can now pop it in and out of place. There is nothing particularly interesting about Miguel.
People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.
This series is a response to a health diagnosis, trigeminal neuralgia and thoracic outlet syndrome, from a major mid-Atlantic hospital after a several year journey through chronic pain.
and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud
Mama sped along the highway, unbothered by bits of gravel that flew up from the front tires and struck the windshield of the sedan.
and on and on and on and on they ran, the Merry Men, running from a hundred and one arrows bought with taxes stolen twice over…
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then.
Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
I am still waiting for the lion
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering,
a still shot in monochrome
I am still waiting for the lion
You said it was okay to blame
what goes wrong on the planet
Part of being a good sad person
is always painting the shadows
in the right direction and knowing
what sorrow to art with.
We drifted junk with a sledgehammer looking for juice. Sometimes the rage.
what ur female protagonist needs is for some guy to beat the shit out of her…
Allanson looked out of the viewport, at the ragtag flotilla of ships trailing behind, some of them slow to catch up. It was to be expected with the little time that they’d had to cobble the fleet together.
Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth,
cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.
anger, like you can sink teeth into, candy apple
Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time
Hitting up homes peopled by those with nothing much to lose was an easy score. The less you had, the less likely you were to defend it. But this home was different. Its residents had a lot to lose and the will to fight for it.
When I was on earth I was a pretty good kid. I only got drunk when I needed to get drunk.
Sex is not a thank you card in this house.
You let the yellow glow
from eye sockets. The building up the street
is burning faster and faster.
I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.
I pushed my nose to within an inch from the rug. I sniffed, and sniffed, and I smelled something…not quite right, but I couldn’t place it.
We said, Heck, that’s really something.
It was spring and the hills were irradient, like they had to get out all their green in one short burst before catching fire.
The weeks go like this: accepting, horny, hopeful, sad. I’m four different people trying to establish one perspective on a major life event – on the creation of life itself.
Adrienne Christian is a poet, writer, and fine art photographer.
make the most sound, I think,
as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.
you know that
baby swallows make silver ripples
in wild rivers to court reeds?
Taking photographs of my hometown has given me a chance to reflect on people whom I have not valued.
I loved Rena as much as a patient could love their gynecologist. We had tea together in her office. I cried when she asked how I was doing, and she showed me pictures of her terriers.
It all started with the curse of my tits. Women’s bodies are cursed. Everyone tries to look at them, everyone tries to ignore them.
Sitting at the bar on Pacific Avenue. With the seashells in the walls. Same bartender from last year, still here, making the same lethal Mai Tais.
I don’t know why I was still talking about the rapture. I certainly didn’t believe in it. Regardless, it remained a thief…
Millions of Americans have been affected by identity theft. It’s probably the greenhouse gases.