The Visitor
30 May 2008
Vol. 8, No. 1
poetry, prose poem
I wake up, and you are already gone. Every morning it's like this: my eyes flick open, and this punches me into the day…
Toy Story
27 May 2008
Vol. 8, No. 1
poetry, prose poem
Listen, friend, there is a proper way to hold the warehouse when its walls have been blown out like this, and it sits there, dumb in the field. Like so: imaginary sphere, bundle of noise. We are sitting; I'm wishing for a table to mark our spot in the hilly grass, and that's when we get the sudden feeling that we are to stand, that we are to do something, really do something, like torch our possessions and gather all the humanoid figures in the wood grain of the cabinets in Nancy's kitchen into a single line of sight, singing softly, little dirge as the day ends.