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  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    I watch the men with fat faces deprecate one another while the women slosh around with sunken hips and saddened eyes, laughing congenital beings, discursive colloquies sometimes I get soft AND: outwardly, I am eager for their conversation for their adulation BUT: still I w...
  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    All this alone time, and still my books sit, as though I bought them for just that purpose. In a way, I am one of my books, sitting, collecting dust. This night is different. This night I am inquisitive, floating. Hours pass, I am still floating, now more detached than ever, into my books. They seem...
  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    I grew up in a small, cold city just out of New Jersey, called Secaucus. Everyone I've ever known has lived here. I recently moved to get away from it all; from the closeness, the forced generalities passed along from person to person. Their arid, recurrent conversation stems from a prevalent f...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    pale velour dollops killing spiders with the wet off their heads juniper children shedding their summer hands, ending aestivation wrinkled backs feeling the first blight of winter and the old man drinks his coffee “just as well” he says...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    they all sit, staring waiting for things that will never come looking down at their food as though it’s supposed to give them something, something other than self loathing and now I sit, staring I already ate so they make me sick...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    so he sips his tea and thumbs his tie but his thoughts are not on tea or tie or the many women fixing their hair for the many men to have something to look at they plan their days according to their faults and enjoy things like a widow enjoys life solemnity is non-existent even in...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    the bark subjective, roots indistinct everything is singular here it’s as if this place were a machine rendering its own capital the leaves float to the earth floor in a graceful struggle and are kept alive by glow and soil if Sartre were here he would grimace and grow wings and f*...

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