Latest Submissions

Letters from a Heartbroken Pervert: “The Races” and “Writing a Blink-182 Song”

The Races As should be clear by now, I am straight. So all of the below applies to women and women only. Blacks Not attractive. Yeah, that’s a…


Psalm to Gun Violence (Ode to Mass Shootings)

Just for today (if only for a moment), I am free to rise…as daylight's rueful awakenings sparkle like awesome diamond clusters adrift clear blue…


The Manipulators

Rudely awakened by smoke inside and shouts beyond in the street, Austin struggled into his blue work shirt, stuffing wallet and keys into dark…


An Ode to Post-Cold War Friendships of the Creative Nature

The ’97 Bank of America robbery was one of the last great patriotic crimes, attached to a real need and a real motive, in a real nation, the kind you…


The Short, Mediocre Life of David Foster Wallace

On this day ten years ago, David Foster Wallace went into his garage, tied a noose, slung it around his neck, and kicked the chair away. The literary…


The Learning Question

Sitting at a two-people table, watching more than participating in the noisy office party, she looked up to see a man, drink in hand, pointing to the…


The Serpent

“The trap opened in a great big yawn and the light came shining in. Morning. Always one of the worst parts of the day. It’s sticky, stale, and it…


“A Place Somewhere,” “Museum Poem,” “Winter Buries Them,” and Other Poems

A Place Somewhere The dream is the same no matter the night. There is a light, weak and blue, over a country house where nothing stirs, not even a…


NEET, Part 2

XVIII. When he woke again, it was morning and the house was quiet except for rustling in the kitchen, the drip-drip of the coffee machine, and the…


Strange Rain

The memory returned with the speckled goose twenty yards long and a huge raised goose’s bill and face in profile, from the childhood nightmare in the…