The thief helped the blind man up his front steps caressed his elbow and asked about lucky numbers and did he dream about more than one thing – was there smell and touch and sound, how could he tell if he were dreaming about our world or another?
the beaten boy sings a song even when silent syllables following in inevitable order as the tendons in his throat dance. you’d know the song, everyone has heard it but you never knew who the owner was being this boy who polishes its light every day.
here is the bartender harassing the florist about the freshness of his geraniums and the smudges on the cut glass vases he has arrayed for sale behind the chipped Formica counter. give me something I’ve never had before, the bartender says then laughs.
come midnight all the calendars on all the computers changed at once to become a sacred day and the proper rites were conducted, delivered over the phone and every place the written word is inscribed. those who died are saints: who will believe their lives ended that way?
a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
Petersen House, Washington, D.C. (i admit to own a passion for the Civil War in general, and the life and death of the sixteenth president in particular). between a hard spot of whiskey and draughts of arrack nonetheless (without doubt),
though moo cho yars older, i (bovine cuddly name = hay4four at aol dot com), could feign 2b a frat house bro by undergoing a facial augmentation – despite lacking dough unlike the multimillionaires here in lower merion, where a
Whirlpool of emotions spins… When u think . Who’s first choice u r… Is Solitude always an answer… When life just echos your chaios.. Among first words ever told.. A voice calls you ‘Amma’ … As though all my questions
They were coming like cotton pearls, Destined to change the earth to heaven, It’s all white around like a fairy dream, same as that I saw in my first love dream. Same as that, makes me happy and sad at
Hazel eyes and long curls of chocolate hair, these were just what caught me first. Clean skin, unspoiled, never marred by the crooked calloused hands of man. She was and always will be the paragon of beauty, and to only