A night of ghazals comes to an end to fill with birds.
As the sky blues, their calls braid in New Jersey.
…we must learn to nest in piles of our own rejection slips and somehow effectively grab hold of the levers and buttons that control the means of writerly production…
I wrote The Brass Girl Brouhaha by tattooing the word WRONG across my heart to help me muster the strength I’d need to argue with a world that wanted me to say “hey, y’all!” in a hill-country accent sipping tea under a dogwood in a pink smock smattered with etchings of ivy.
Oh God she says
The dog has learned to spell
I bet you think I made that up,that this is some dystopian anti-elegy,
and that I am another Cassandra, bemoaning
a distant, inevitable future, but I saw it,
not ten minutes ago…
It was the sound of our lawn, the hiss of sprinklers, that chilled me. That year Jack erected a barbed wire fence to keep the scum out, keep the Mansons away.
Remarkably, it got worse.
At the time it seemed a good idea
Dividing his ashes
A Yoga tutorial. A collapsed body. An expanded view. Peace of mind gone horribly wrong.
I watched her for ten long minutes
in Barnes & Noble.
Fearmongering is pretty much all Trump’s got, so he’s going with it.
I’m packing enough
for the impending flea market
The IRS decided to audit Grandpa, and summoned him to the IRS office. The IRS auditor was not surprised when Grandpa showed up with his attorney.
Pokey LaFarge performing “Garbage Man Blues” at Music City Roots from the Loveless Cafe in Nashville.