January 2021 Writing

Blood Coins

You watch, you keep track of your knees, and depending, your elbows too. The wounds are your reward, after you prove again and again that you’re a brave girl. Mommy sees your wounds, she’s proud of you, she was a brave girl too. Brave girls can look at each other and...

A Bolt Out of the Blue

All of this polyglot ramshackle in the stern underpinnings I keep my tongue. The forecast is looming, an act turned into the name of its machine. How stars turn to undoing us, a dropped stitch gone supernova. A needlepoint sampler is all I have left. A grandmother's...

Rewrite “Melting Ice”

Melting Ice You sit five feet across from your murderess. Your intestines gnarled by decades of emotional constipation bend you chest to knees. At first blush, your asymmetric physiognomy suggests prior stroke. But she clearly knows you have disconnected one side of...

Melting Ice

Melting Ice You sit five feet across from your murderess. Your intestines gnarled by decades of emotional constipation bend you chest to knees. Your asymmetric physiognomy suggests prior stroke at first blush. But she clearly knows you have disconnected one side of...

Liminal

It's the pocket knife that I bought on a whim during a summer gig in college. It's clustered on a low table with a pen, some bits and bobs of receipts and lint, and whatever other minutiae came out of the jean pocket that had housed it.  It has plenty of stories to...

Don’t Smoke in Bed

Dawn came with a shattered porcelain boot. I blame the fire engine's sirens across the street. Boots should be rubber like a hose. The shelves made from weathered oars held a dusty mirror. I pulled the oar from the wall, as easy as an icepick through cheap canvas,...

Something There is About Love

I wonder if love made the yesterday, grew old or slowly died upon the tree. *   lovers united by carvings, padlocks, ink forged onto tree, bridge, skin confront ravages of time, wayward passions   aged bark can ignite in a moment of negligence abundant locks...

Sentence

Hollow or womb Sidewalks don’t welcome Trees, birds, even rats turn their backs Emptiness engages See the silent ripple as children pass Proscribe until nothing is become Pythia, have you finally left the temple Fleet in the wisp of the formless others   Under...

The Fuck’s a Tuffet?

The Fuck’s a Tuffet?   Little Miss Muffet took another hit from her Juul. It was Friday, which meant English class all afternoon. Instead of walking towards the Arts building, though, Muffet detoured into the woods so she could do a little pipe before Hawthorne. ...

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