Your lips are soft, elastic,easy to press. Our tongues collapsingtwo slimy stars colliding, searching for atomsto borrow, breathe, and bend.Your hips are snowy cityscapes. I’ll climb them.We’ll sweat, folded, then sit on our sides,naked, the sheets vandalizedby our oils and skin. Wake up, you still have to travel.Pass them. Leap them. Dodge them.

She’s beyond the black eye-socket windowoverlooking the November backyardhalf-dead with drifts of leavessurrounding the empty trunks and rootsa near-abandoned city waiting for the first snowfall. She’ll float to the clear glass pane. It's fog-warped from her ghoulish breath.Her tight, tattered-hood illuminatedwith twin-purple suns for eyes;jewels off some haunted, living sarcophagus. Her voice is ancient-book low and thin…

Hello all, just like the blog title said, I wanted to announce that my speculative fiction poem "The Broken Entrance" was published by Just Keep Up Magazine. I absolutely love this magazine, and I'm honored they would publish my work. You can read that poem right here. Also, explore the rest of this fantastic literary magazine…

We’re always on that knuckle of starlight,tucked between life and death,but another scythe was swingingthat adult-edged air whistling,ready to hew and severcartoons, stickers, and action figuresat a sleepover in eighth gradeat Frank Erickson’s house. It was the late 90’s dream,the wonderland was a three-tiered pixel cake.Upstairs, Knights on the Saturn,in the kitchen Mario Kart on the 64,

My dog knew it right away.She was inside your carsurrounded by boxes, bags, papers,clothes, and more boxes. A fortressof clutter, material, and belongings.So tight, she felt scared, and whined.The walls were closing, clawing, and tighteningphantom hands around our throats. We were broken before we knew we were.The cardboard was the beacon, the blazing fire-eye…

First, it was the beams between dust,highlighting particles dancingin my parent’s basementwith chocolate carpet and an eyebrow window.Where we, old friends and lovers,would swap dreams and desiresuntil you tearfully realized I couldn’t do anythingbut wrestle with my depression. Then, rays of it glittering in jeweled reflectionsduring our honeymoonon an emerald lagoon, with tropic tips, and…

My father’s hoarding heartis bending bricks in his garagecreasing the foundation, turninghis house downward,closer to the pithe clawed out from. At first, just artifactsbits of his past livesrecovered from dead family.Immortalized in tins, boxes,bins, stacks, and piles in his office,study, backroom, and garages. My mother would whisperthat he’d always be this way…

Trigger warning: Suicide, self-multilation, and depression. I wish it hadn’t been youmy beautiful sonsto wake me up. It should have beenthe self-carved stripdangling red off my wrist,or the catfish water hiding the sirenbelow the High Bridge, crafting that suicidal lullaby so perfectlyI could picture the river bottomand it was Camelot, Shangri-La, a muddy paradise of…

It was an old memory.In Norway, with unrestrained daylight,and slugs horned and black, wiggling out of the stalksof my great aunt’s garden.Behind her lemon house, with leafy siding,waxy with uncensored sunlight. We’re on the sea for lunch, it is black, fathomless,the inky water clinging to the cliffs.On a patio, the wind is flag-tight, whipping,

How can you not choose to change?

Something comes over you.