You wished it were a ball, its pentagons— dark & light, kicked it off the path like Lionel Messi, feigned a soaring goal by Argentina,...

Maybe a shot of luck— the deflecting of fired lead. Or a golfer's placid putt into a cup; the baseball which is launched into the air,...

What is it about our conditioning that moves us to hate the weak and ugly? What stories were we told of beautiful riders and delicate...

I’ve learned my bitter lesson, to never ask a question on our city’s Facebook group. Does anyone know if there’s a Dairy Queen in town?...

You’ve squandered your very best, on that which fails to give you lauds & laurels: the one-liner which you muttered in the mausoleum...

Our daughter is dead. We plant seedlings by her grave in April, when Spring seduces with all its promise, moisten the ground with a jug...

…with hints of raspberry, chocolate, citrus and aromatic in its finish. Cut the bullshit, please. I taste nothing of the kind—and the...

You were always one step ahead— leaping from your seat before the puck had hit the twine; remarking it’s delish before the food was on...

I was finally compelled to cut my lengthy hair. Twirling it on my fork in spaghetti’s place, staining it Ragu-Red; quaffing it with my...

there’s no time to cry; happy, happy —R.E.M. I want to live in a painting by Thomas Kinkade. The critics all hate his guts— and that...

I blame everything on our thumbs. Their cursèd opposability; picturing how things would go if not for their relative acrobatics: the...

is that we’re duped to trill its praise, just beyond our tarmacs & cement, our fists of rage and road, the screech of iron wheels, the...

I me mine, I me mine, I me mine No one’s frightened of playing it Everyone’s saying it Flowing more freely than wine ...

The coffee maker’s cacophonous, its array of beeps enough to rouse a cadaver. No need for over- kill—though my eyelids have been leaden...

The dog won’t let me type this tangled poem. She’s doing what any other dog would be doing at this instance:   whining, yelping, walking...

I’ve always overblown my heart’s confessions, what I’d do  for you,   screaming from the mountains every minstrel boasts they’d climb,...

You walk in awkward solemnity, your eyes upon the grass as if they’re trees, and you above their crowns—over half a mile   in the air,...

All of us are smitten by the cute. And the shine of symmetry. The clear, un- blemished skin of stunning’s layer. I could sing each note ...

—for Rico   Our moon’s a prime example of less-is- more. Its slivered, crescent shine. Its mountains on the brim of light and dark. Risen...

and not because I’m pulled by the colour black. Actually, all the pigments combined will equal black. So it’s really just considering...