Striped Cucumber Beetle
26 March 2008
Vol. 8, No. 1
poetry, prose poem
For a few moments in the deep overcast of late afternoon, the creek-bank ferns and my Gatorade glowed the same green. The light from the Earth goes out into space, hits the sun, and makes it shine.
Wedge-shaped Beetle
24 March 2008
Vol. 8, No. 1
poetry, prose poem
When I say, "I can feel the toxins in my brain," I know I'm wrong. There are no nerves in the brain. But the sentence itself is toxic.
Mailbox
27 February 2006
Vol. 5, No. 4
poetry
You may already have won $10,000!
That's not what you'd hoped
to sift from passing traffic, no…
Comb
25 February 2006
Vol. 5, No. 4
poetry
The first was a fish skeleton.
But you don't want
the top of your head
to dart and shift
without cease.
Starfish
2 December 2003
Vol. 3, No. 4
poetry, prose poem
Dreams that no matter what button you push, the floors keep flicking past, 33, 34, 35, that you're walking on a long bridge, no land in sight…
Straw
2 December 2003
Vol. 3, No. 4
poetry, prose poem
Not hay. Too singular. Not chaff, not grain. Something Pre-Socratic about its attraction to living heat, stable dung. Not lace. Not grass-whistle…
