Prose & Poetry

You barely listen to the funeral host talk as she speaks in complicated Japanese that your

It’s hard to look yourself in the eyes after a suicide attempt. I tend to look

or do, but can’t prioritize a pitstopof thrushes, zimbabwe’s fuel hikeor cadillac mountain aglowin my granite

“It’s getting closer,” she said, her eyes on the smoke rising from the ground after the

The crowd becomes groups.  The groups become individuals as they slowly file out the front door,

Eighth Avenue is covered in dirty white snow. “What’s up, guys,” I say, pushing open the

notes chime your wordson an otherwise silentscreen. that same spikeof adrenaline bursts in myveins uninvited inspiration

                                                                                                             Transubstantiation             On her wedding day in 1821, Charlotte Freeman was eager to feel grown

my heart is a turnipgrown to an absurd extenta rutabaga wrested from the groundwith undue influencedried