Once upon a time there were three pigs. One became choice bacon, the other choice ham,while the third went on a killing spree of butchers throughout the land. By the time they caught himhe was the most prolific serial killer in history.His fame rivaled Hansel, Aladdin, and even Little Red.He was the swine of…

your bitter songwas pomegranate,but i refused to eatthe seeds;you were not hadesso i could not be yourpersephone—you were a devilguised as an angel,but if you were oncecelestialyou traded your virtuesfor your pridelike lucifer falling from heaven;you were a prince charmingbut insincere—into the woodsyou will find i am not cinderella,but the witch;and i…

A castle of a boy stretches out into the darkness,sits on a hill, transfixed. Held aloft by the shimmering night-freckles of stars. He tumbles through stupefied moss carpets of unrest,watching his father thread a bearded pathway to peace,across the sky.And then his spiny grandfather encroaches, in close succession, shuffling along with eyes that…

In the woods and hamlets, a middle aged womanmight be known for her cunning— with a healthysense of self-preservation she might save her breastuntouched yet expectant. Dreams of milkflow from a silver pitcher. Wolves wouldcome to my door to drink. You should be gladyou need not fear their howls. I had no one to goto, so I…

A kit drank from a certain puddle near an old stone well. She startled— suddenly aware of her reflection. Surprised by the other pair of dark eyes staring back at her, she ran deep into the woods. As she ran faster and faster, her legs grew longer and longer. However,…

mechanic robot walking down the streetssad eyes, broken heartedeveryone sees the beauty in it but methey think to themselves“what a glamorous way to go navigate life!” i knowi’m a mannequin of sufferingand with cigarettes on my nicotine-stained fingersand bruises on my thighsit looks so romantic, as if i’m living in…

Bill Evans on Kind of Blue The melody off Evans’ keys       grows underneath the hornslike a python in a Florida marsh,                   the notes easy to catch,all prey without trees to climb.       His hands feed in the horns’shadows. Cymbals and snare                   scurry away as he slidesthrough these tunes. Reeds       take flight any time his lineflicks near their…

Are you alive? I heard the poet ask, speaking to me, my ear bud as it started snowing as I walked inside the gates of Père Lachaisecemetery? Is everybody in? the ceremony is about to begin? Embracinghis American Prayeran ex-patriot in Paris has been my guide since the moment I held that 45 vinyl record when he first lit my fire, ageseven, thirty years laterafter…

Writing the date May 14, ____which ‘til today has-been routine,suddenly seems a mystery. Born just after the war in 1945,time has apparently caught up with this mid-septuagenarian. What the hell does 2-0-1-9 mean?It feels so very unfamiliar, distant from roots’ origins – even horrible. Was that the beginning (or middle)of my losing…