From the category archives:

Poetry

Eclogue 1

And then I started to think about what a revolution would look like. What if Brooklyn and Manhattan went to war with each other? Somewhere in between a real war and a really big game of Capture the Flag. Except there would be more torture. The streets would run red with tatoo ink and pinstripes.

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Where Does Your Writing Go?

Poetry

When you sit down to write, what happens? Is it a thrilling experience? Does your hand tingle and do your legs shake? Or are do you anxiously fret over every word choice and syntactical construction? Does creating enliven or exhaust you? As someone who has been on both sides of this coin, I am interested in what happens to us when we write, paint, sing; in short, what happens when we create?

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The History Eater

Poetry

I read once that all the stores were bursting with wares.
You forged a century without lifting a finger.
When you fell those shops fell too.
You skinned your own people; naked tomatoes
For long winter’s summer sauce.

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The Weavers

Poetry

The hill is not as spooked anymore
The hill with the factory perched upon it
Staring down the questioned town
Riddled with gentle craftsmen
For whom making mistakes
Was their breath

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