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Accepting submissions to from January 1st to May 30th

My stuff

Flat Earth Movement

Sun bloodlets into rainwater pools 

 and flatlines, her affairs left disordered

With her passing, the physiques of twigs fade

Until wood becomes a recordless mass

Its shadows, once victim to my full-figured

swallow, are no body’s for the taking 

Now the concrete hues ahead and behind 

are of an inflexibly leaden character

And tonight my cyclical hindsight has set

on this flat walk to the end of the earth

Recently single

When did we bring back the pompadour?

These men

are all growing from the roots

Leaning over bar counters and flexing through cotton sausage casing

[You’d choose Dirtwolf or Fat Head’s

Until everything was malt and yeast and hops

And you were tasting Burt’s Bees]

Should I have rehearsed Kendrick and J. Cole?

How much does swinging pencil-skirted hips and mouthing rhythmic social justice manifestos

Increase your sex appeal?

She leans forward as she reads

Locks apostrophizing temples

Brushing skin in quiet rhythm

With her listener's subtle nod and throat assenting


She plays wit in mezzo-forte

Ends in affable acceptance

Of applause, with an aristocratic leaning


Writer’s age is exponential

Bookworm wisdom folds to crows feet

Biting cheek at meek and hackneyed elegy


And her looks draw constellations

Eyes to lips to mind’s intention

Intuition, in its silence, is arresting...


There’s a carefulness in women

Just behind the black-framed countenance

Fixed between a thought and choice’s undertaking


I’m enraptured, often tipsy

Near this artist and her history

Inkblot locks are punctuating ivory