I didn’t have headphones for my CD player, so when my parents were home I kept the volume low. At night when they went to bed I played it at a barely audible level and hugged the machine against my ear.
We played in our cousin’s backyard. It was always pitcher’s hand out, right field out. If you did dish it right over the barbed wire into burdock, Queen Anne's lace, thistle, milkweed, you had to
Three boys took their positions on the makeshift field. The flagstone wall edging the upper lawn was the outfield fence. One foul line was the street, the other the edge of the woods. Joey pitched.
He visited the library later that night still in his baseball gear, his eye black dancing with tears. I'm sorry, I said, but three strikes is three strikes. His batting glove let me know he understood.
The veteran second baseman
is fiddling with his glasses in the twilight: The calculated
third baseman is scanning over the crowd for his family...
It felt like a belly flop
crammed into a calcified bounce house
The helmet is slightly too big, and the interior foam padding is the texture of damp dough, thanks to Paula’s fat, sweaty head.
Eighty-five percent of the Earth’s surface is tarp
Even if it is addressed to you, this is a letter for me. If it were truly a letter for you, it would be written in sound, in the words that lilt on your tongue, rise a tempest in your rage,
The "UTOPIA STUDY" series is a form of experimental architectural photography that focuses on modern architecture in a number of American cities. Buildings and details within them are transformed into
I could have no path, no idea of what I should be or how I should live. I could skate through neighborhoods, where I wouldn’t find a Mormon church or anyone who knew I had strayed from the path I was raised to follow
Since You Left I Have Spent My Days Staring Blankly at the Beer Sign in the Bar From the Time it Opens Until Closing Time
Neon
Neoff
Boredom
I walked through the senior hallway, heart beating fast. The boys’ stares burned into my skin as they whispered things to each other.
There is a crawl space in my lover’s house that his wife and children don’t know about. He likes to sing into it when he’s drunk and he’s only drunk when he’s with me.
Were this place to close, or burn, or fall, in an earthquake, down.
Were it to flood or be bulldozed to make way for the gray &
unmusical slab of an apartment building. Were it to be
Q-tips were her guilty pleasure. She loved the feel of them caressing her inner ear, reaching the itch she could otherwise not scratch. Even when there wasn’t a swish of water lodged within, she loved
She had us trade cardigans. She said it was an exercise in empathy.
I used to write in circles. Starting in the center.
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Part 3 of 4
Apart from all these violent events, Raziel, De Kuff, and the other cult members have been moving between Jerusalem, Safed (site of the ancient
