A Stream of Consciousness about Brussels and Being Home

What this guy sees is smoke and he hears noise like screaming. He’s on the ground, he’s at an airport, … More

The Phones

The smell of gunpowder makes its way into my nose. God. You’d think a cop wouldn’t mind the smell. Might … More

The early morning stirs its way into the dawn’s dark sky. And the evening moon, which became the night moon, … More

The window over the sink, the one with a late-day sun coloring the kitchen. Through it, the farmer watched the … More

A colossal pumpkin in my arms, I stumbled into the house. Kicking toy cars, small, discarded shoes out of my path. … More

Pooka sits on my chest as if she were a mother hen. I think she thinks, My girl is warm. … More

There is a bubble on my fiancée’s eyeball. Probably only a millimeter or two in width. It is clear. Looks … More

The troll was abandoned by his mother. It was standard practice. It was part of troll culture, of growing up. Under a bridge, she … More

Old Mouse stands atop a sand dune. The desert burns without flame. So dry, so so dry. Old Mouse tries … More

Together. Her feet brushed on and through the sand. Figure like air. We walked along the beach. Didn’t hold each … More