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...

In those days, the plot was only as sharp as pointed lead. HB didn’t stand for Harcourt Brace— not yet,   and every yarn dependent on a...

You can thank Gavrilo for your existence. And this Serbian’s piercing shot. I should really give credit to his mother. Marija lost six  ...

With the most recent tabulations from the Department of Global Poetry, there are 685 billion, 278 million, 431 thousand, 294 poems about...

You noticed I bought a book by Eli Bartmann. His tome of Selected Poems. 88-hundred pages. Now there’s a man who’s humble,  remarking...

News sites have become a one-trick pony. My friend in California read The Big One’s Coming Soon— Here’s Why   causing her to toss her...

Can’t you hear the Atlantic? little Shelly asks, handing it to me as if in turn, a pearl that’s found beneath, the odds of one-in-three,...

We’ve been locked in an iterant eddy, a satellite that’s fused into its rhythm, a record that wheels forever, despite the ending of its...