From the Print

Amateur Hands

I’m nowhere near finished with grading the poems when I lock up my room for the night. It’s almost eleven. Somewhere another door slams. The space between lockers swells with a draft whose source is unknown. It carries the scent…

The Establishment

I enter a room that isn’t ready for me It acts like I wasn’t even invited The jobless horse goes around No job No job  No job Now that’s something to celebrate I find a sound chair & take it home

Bad Mexican Food

The clock on the wall was red. It said 3:37. Tick. Tick. Tick. The paint running dry, the rim cracked and falling to pieces. I went to the bathroom. It said OMBRES which any idiot knows is spelled wrong.

Shaking Hand

Sometimes, if the dwarf sits quietly enough at his wooden desk under the warm orange glow of his aluminum department store lamp, his mind begins searching across a barren desert for things to write about, and soon an orchestra begins to perform outside the cracked midnight window to his right.

All I Ever Wanted

When Mom found my stash like she had drug dog senses or something, she made a huge deal then called me into her bathroom, my sack in one hand and the cordless in the other, threatening to call Dad, which of course she never did.