An image one could call pedestrian might still convey significance profound. For instance, water dripping in a pan demonstrates fluid motion, waves of sound, time’s passage marked with every passing plink, properties of aqueous suspension, how ratios of geometries link, capillary action, surface tension, volume’s effects upon viscosity,  prismatic colors, current convections, refraction and trans-luminosity,…

The cockroach of the interstate,he scurries on the walls of streetswith feathered feet that whisper secretsof the night to sleeping asphalt. Perched above the road, he trainshis eye to trace the shoulder’s curve,guiding his discus brush to swirlthe line like ballerinas spinning on stage. Inside, the world is still.With wrinkled hands he plays the screensand…

Tell me about your mother. And I am, just like that, reminded I put myself here. Here I lieacross black leather red-eyed.He, red-tongued lip-licker, prepares himselffor his favorite part. Tell meabout your mother. And I’m awareof my breath because of his tools. Like teeth his bone saw clicks. Temples drip like juiceuntil dribbling and I…

my father says women are emotionalbecause i cry when he yellsand he yells when i ask him to treat melike he treats my brothers. my father says women are emotionalwhen my mum refuses to speakbecause she knows if she talkshe will scream and make threats. my father says women are emotionalbecause i’m afraid to talk…

Senior Prom, May third,  nineteen fifty-two.The lights lowered for the last dance and our shadowed first kiss, kept like a flowerunfading. Arthur’s Swing Band mellowed, to spotlight the husky crooning of Miss LouParsons, “Goodnight, sweetheart,” at the hour of wishing: “In my dreams tonight I’ll hold you,” as we’ve held each other from that midnight…

Perhaps the hairpin pupil of a child’s eye,is where all the lost things go to hide,burrowed back in the folds,of underdeveloped matter,in a squishy skull,soft down hair spattered,in our moments of regression,it’s shame that burns our eyes,and blinds our senses,So then all things lost,live in the foggy memory of our evolution,the grey landscape we can’t…

here lies a dead man a bad man a sad handto hold his weeping bride he was good (or he tried)kept her happy (satisfied)but hear this, when alivemama wished that he’d die burnt frying panleader of a klan(as if i give a damn)said that he had a planto make a better land(a cleaner land! unblemished…

–  for Charla Two brown eyes, framed by spraysof pine needles, stared, blinked.   The fawn lowered her head. This is a once-in-a-life, she thought,as she lifted the camera to her eye.The camera strap rustled, and the deer bolted.  Her mama quickly herded heraway. In the viewfinder the focusingdots nervously flickered trying to find those eyes.…