September 13, 2019 | Poetry
All that whimpers isn’t want.
One spring, I pulled
a reed from an oboe.
I planted it by a pond.
Instantly, it... more
Sometimes I want to take the industrial strength green Korean loofah, my sandpapery mitten, and just scrub at my face until huge chunks of flesh tear away and roll into brown fleshy noodles and fall to the floor. Afterwards, I won’t be bloody and flayed, all raw nerve endings and hamburger meat, I’ll be smooth as a peeled egg, soft and firm and pliant to the touch.
Read Kevin Mahler's Introduction to his ongoing 6-part "Portrait Series Paralleling Characters in HBO’s... more
Warning: CHOKING HAZARD—Not suitable for anyone who has trouble swallowing... more
Robert John Miller
They gather in the basement to weep together like the boys they are.