It was cold out, as cold as the hands of an old diabetic. I lit my cigarette on the closest star and ducked into the joint. It was red inside, and blurry The man on the stage played the sax syncopated. Like a man with two left feet. The suspect looked the part. He was

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I-94 E I can hardly see through yesterday’s rainbows in a black and white photograph blanket fort             (Please) Turn up the radio til it disappears. Hidden fires strip to streetlight personals They flipbook by and your head on my shoulder is the harvest moon. The light woke up to find herself tied with wire

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Blue skin scaled over the arched back of the sea, retching. The sick foam on the shore and on M–––‘s boots. His shadow on the cliff behind is of an ivy sort. It lingers after he departs. It weakens the wall. White salt stays on dried leather like a mountain range. M––– ponders over his

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