on the go — Coming to the coffee shop on 33rd and 3rd with a backpack full of ideas and clairvoyants in my head. Write an article for the paper and one of them starts to cough, trying to explain and insinuate that there’s no truth in the name, the title, the words in the story, frivolous and boring, uninteresting…

Wednesday Prose Poem: the first or last line — “ — All the half-decayed fish foot, unwary of the skeletons — all — all the fish that still snag the beach—the — ” “’Coon, what are you saying?” “It’s a poem from a poet named J.D. Harms and there’s this prompt — ” Cat had already lost all interest…

Wednesday Prose Poem: something about pressure… — Margaret was a shy and well-read girl from Flagstaff, Arizona. During college, what little free time she had left she devoured more books, sometimes drinking a little wine but never got drunk. Her roommate, Sammie, loved to hit up the bars on her free time, or just time; she drank…

Saturday Poetry Prompt: sighing through psychoanalysis — I’m thinking about the skull on your thigh, the inner logic of all that rides, the clandestine idea lingering in the bedroom of shadows, of nightly renaissance, portrayed on the solid wall behind electronic light. I’m thinking of the prison in your eyes, the profundity of the abyss, dark and wise and…

Saturday Poetry Prompt: Dear Chaos… — Oh, I look at you and see your posture, so bent under the wavering light in winter storm, caressing near the heater of emotions in a feeble life so obedient to others’ recklessness in a world of stature. The greyhound is not riding, and the train is not rolling because all of…

Wednesday Prose Poem — who do you see? — You don’t smile the way you used to. When you were a child you could hardly stop. Did the energies of toxic, broken egotism pollute your world, crashing between action figures and imagination fit for any presence? …

A Poem for a Place in Time — Take the snow-capped mountains above the city, and keep it on your wall of fortitude, of safety from the misconstrued fortunes, because there will be no snow this year. Heavenly seasons will be no more, under the heat wave in December, the precursor to post-dreams, drastic and scarce. There will be no monumental messages sent…

Saturday Poetry Prompt: feeling backwards — I could be in a hotel room thinking that there is nowhere else to be, bags on the floor, hardly unpacked, and my mind on the day in the Golden City, wandering the streets looking for a good café to write in or a decently clean sidewalk to scribble some maniacal notes in —…