that time

xerxes, fried baloney, cleopatra click click, powdered eggs, slimy chicken in #10 cans, the toaster fire, the burnt cabinet, slicing a finger while slicing bread, plastic radio on the shelf, "at beneficial, you're

Could those human bones we dug up that time have been cursed? Could I have been cursed? Could we have been cursed? We put them back, but maybe that didn’t help. I did everything I could to avoid digging up the bones of my assault.

As we wept—my father and I—I wondered if it was for his friend, after all. I wondered if it was for him. I wonder if it was for me.

The original trauma was birth and everthying that follows is but preparation for the trauma of death. Of letting go of all that we have learned. It is only through remembering that we can die because remembering is to forget.

For most of my life, I felt disconnected and adrift. My childhood was marked by abuse and neglect. I never felt like I belonged to my birth family. The thing I remember most about being young

I believe I am the figment of a little boy’s imagination. He’s trying to imagine himself in the future. In a different future than the one he expects. I am ten years old imaging I am sixty-three.

(This is part of a series. You can read related posts here.) I had a bad fall. As in the season. My mood generally turns dour around September, but then usually gets better by Thanksgiving. My

that was how it started, this is how it started, that death, this death, two points, on an imaginary line, only one point, on a circle, a clock...

It is not known what his disposition was as an infant but it is assumed that he was born innocent, curious, bright. His parents were mostly absent, the father physically, spending his days looking for work

Despite his six foot height and broad shoulders, his clothes hung on him loosely like a child growing into hand-me-downs. He wore a green plaid flannel shirt, faded blue jeans and shiny black boots. Tattoos peeked

We were poor. Number 10-sized cans of mealy, sinewy, chicken guts, peanut butter, and powdered eggs. Embarrassing standing in line to pick it all up.

Most people think they know what makes a haiku, and most of them are wrong.

i took my dead mother for a walk last week at Land’s End, by chance i was just looking for easy access water to dump her in to dissolve her, i guess was the intention i didn’t give it that much thought

I don’t have writer’s block. I have writer’s fright. Nothing is permitted. Everything is true. I tell myself that I cannot lie in my writing. Is this what I’m afraid of? Why

This little gem is from from The English and Scottish Popular Ballads ‘O WHARE are ye gaun?’ Quo the fause knicht upon the road. ‘I’m gaun to the scule,’ Quo the wee boy, and still

When Judas heard the crow cock three times, he only did what his Rabbi asked him to. He fulfilled his destiny knowing full well what the cost would be. Condemned forever for an act of loyalty.

At exactly the halfway point between then and now, time, in concert with the earth's inner core of blazing iron and nickel, reversed its direction and began spinning backward as if seeking its own birth in the fiery magma of amygdala.