Category Archives: almost-poems

dirty hands

i am the story

In the flapping of Borges’ pigeon wings, lodged in Gregor Samsa’s gizzard, in the cello played during commercials for luxury sedans and the crow clinging to the top of the telephone pole, behind a mountain’s profile, at the bottom of

dirty hands

i am the story

In the flapping of Borges’ pigeon wings, lodged in Gregor Samsa’s gizzard, in the cello played during commercials for luxury sedans and the crow clinging to the top of the telephone pole, behind a mountain’s profile, at the bottom of

snowy night

xmas rejection song

All wholly shit. My time is wasted rhyming. Who wants to hear me complain? Come flay me now, paper cuts to silver lining then fill each hole up with spackle and paint. I’ll take my fill of dope and wine

snowy night

xmas rejection song

All wholly shit. My time is wasted rhyming. Who wants to hear me complain? Come flay me now, paper cuts to silver lining then fill each hole up with spackle and paint. I’ll take my fill of dope and wine

paper plane

song

This is a song this is a song without music for quiet people for those who don’t need so much stimulation who might prefer the softness of a spoon to the fork or the burn of the sun swallowed by

paper plane

song

This is a song this is a song without music for quiet people for those who don’t need so much stimulation who might prefer the softness of a spoon to the fork or the burn of the sun swallowed by

(image courtesy Christine Mathieu)

house in my head

I have a house in my head. At night I clamber up to look around. I found it years ago–reaching into darkness, fumbling along walls I discovered the opening and hoisted myself up into a low-ceilinged room, close, cobwebbed, clogged

(image courtesy Christine Mathieu)

house in my head

I have a house in my head. At night I clamber up to look around. I found it years ago–reaching into darkness, fumbling along walls I discovered the opening and hoisted myself up into a low-ceilinged room, close, cobwebbed, clogged

plastic

first world worries (a list in progress)

Microphones. Popped buttons. Papercuts. There, on my left side, at the edge of my ribcage, is a strange red welt that won’t go away. You know what that means, right? That plus the mole and the ache in my lower

plastic

first world worries (a list in progress)

Microphones. Popped buttons. Papercuts. There, on my left side, at the edge of my ribcage, is a strange red welt that won’t go away. You know what that means, right? That plus the mole and the ache in my lower

scale

Hole In My Heart

1 I was born with a hole in my heart. I’ve always thought that would make a good first line for a story but in reality, it wasn’t that dramatic. It was a small hole and by the time I

scale

Hole In My Heart

1 I was born with a hole in my heart. I’ve always thought that would make a good first line for a story but in reality, it wasn’t that dramatic. It was a small hole and by the time I

beach woman

fishing

I lean into the shadow of the wall with hat pulled low and my feet buried in sand. I’m holding a book but my eyes move off the page. The woman to my right is applying sunscreen. Her hands move

beach woman

fishing

I lean into the shadow of the wall with hat pulled low and my feet buried in sand. I’m holding a book but my eyes move off the page. The woman to my right is applying sunscreen. Her hands move

bird watching

bird watching

bird watching by Anna Fonté The word observation can mean both attention and devotion, as if watching is both a scientific and a spiritual practice, as if there were a fascial connection between eye, heart, and beyond. I see some

bird watching

bird watching

bird watching by Anna Fonté The word observation can mean both attention and devotion, as if watching is both a scientific and a spiritual practice, as if there were a fascial connection between eye, heart, and beyond. I see some

(image courtesy Porsche Brosseau)

her hand

her hand by anna fonté hot & solid in my hand, when i hold hers i grip a hunk of liquid crystal baked in sun it worms into me, swimming veins, up to my armpit where it curls inside my chest

(image courtesy Porsche Brosseau)

her hand

her hand by anna fonté hot & solid in my hand, when i hold hers i grip a hunk of liquid crystal baked in sun it worms into me, swimming veins, up to my armpit where it curls inside my chest

(by Edward aka Autumn Leaf)

transportation

This morning at 2 a.m. 10/15/2012, my niece was born. I’m beside myself! Is there anything like a newborn? you drive home from the hospital with both hands on the steering wheel, accelerating carefully past a ferry loaded with strangers,

(by Edward aka Autumn Leaf)

transportation

This morning at 2 a.m. 10/15/2012, my niece was born. I’m beside myself! Is there anything like a newborn? you drive home from the hospital with both hands on the steering wheel, accelerating carefully past a ferry loaded with strangers,

(image courtesy Jordan Blanchard)

what i asked for

Every time I say the words “my” and “novel” in the same sentence, my novel hogties me to the bed and teaches me a lesson with a dull pencil: Take that, you pretentious twirp. So today, instead of trying to

(image courtesy Jordan Blanchard)

what i asked for

Every time I say the words “my” and “novel” in the same sentence, my novel hogties me to the bed and teaches me a lesson with a dull pencil: Take that, you pretentious twirp. So today, instead of trying to

by ed ed

if numbers had faces

Lately, I’ve been thinking about numbers. When I was a kid learning math, every number had an association, a face, and/or a personality in my mind. I had a relationship with certain numbers: 2 worried me–I could never write it

by ed ed

if numbers had faces

Lately, I’ve been thinking about numbers. When I was a kid learning math, every number had an association, a face, and/or a personality in my mind. I had a relationship with certain numbers: 2 worried me–I could never write it

microphone

How to Talk Politics

Slap on some new-minted cologne, slick back with a fine-toothed comb, llck the pearly whites and grab the lectern with both hands. Lean forward. Lean. Imagine you’re as big and hard as a microphone. Picture a room full of pretty

microphone

How to Talk Politics

Slap on some new-minted cologne, slick back with a fine-toothed comb, llck the pearly whites and grab the lectern with both hands. Lean forward. Lean. Imagine you’re as big and hard as a microphone. Picture a room full of pretty

(image courtesy William Drai)

sentience

  * how many years has it been  since I fell in love with my own reflection if love was cold and flat as glass?   I’ve spent my life staring into mirrors watching the years swim towards me like

(image courtesy William Drai)

sentience

  * how many years has it been  since I fell in love with my own reflection if love was cold and flat as glass?   I’ve spent my life staring into mirrors watching the years swim towards me like

writing 2

teaching snails to fly

writing is… standing on stage with your skirt up over your head. they approach, wielding sharpies: flabby, they write. cut this. question mark. the click of a camera shutter. all talk, no show. all show, no tell. on your knees

writing 2

teaching snails to fly

writing is… standing on stage with your skirt up over your head. they approach, wielding sharpies: flabby, they write. cut this. question mark. the click of a camera shutter. all talk, no show. all show, no tell. on your knees

(Hiroshi Sugimoto)

the loving

I was reading Courtenay Bluebird’s blog and I came across a beautiful poem she wrote called Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Bluebird, an homage to Wallace Stevens, or what CB calls an “English-to-English translation.” I loved it so much

(Hiroshi Sugimoto)

the loving

I was reading Courtenay Bluebird’s blog and I came across a beautiful poem she wrote called Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Bluebird, an homage to Wallace Stevens, or what CB calls an “English-to-English translation.” I loved it so much