Table of Contents
Regret consumes me the second I press send.
A Letter to the Russian Language
"When will it power?" the old woman says...
Road Romance
I will plan better next time.
Recipe Box
“Everything Mother made had a name,” Grace said to Sandy.
Two poems
Share:FacebookTwitterLinkedinTumblrPrintThe ABC’s of Gift Giving About this bracelet, copper, Boring to anyone expecting always gold, which is a form of being Chemically challenged— Don’t think me that sort of Effing idiot, please—the modernist Francisco Rebajes learned design from the Gods and I would Grovel in front of you anytime, Hoping for appreciation, never mind an Intensely beribboned box Just now handed to me while we’re Knee to knee Like we’re encapsulated in a very small shovel.
Three Poems
Share:FacebookTwitterLinkedinTumblrPrintEmily as a Choke of Silk Delicate beam, thickened in celebration of an induced vision, we have seen the barn on fire, but the barn has never been on fire.  We have seen the rivers emptied, but the sky has only grazed our veins, kissing them with degrees of warmth.  We have, with each other, been shoulder blade to shoulder blade with death, but not once have we given a name to that world, the one where we don’t exist together, the one where the names we speak give us no safety at all.
Two Poems
Share:FacebookTwitterLinkedinTumblrPrintBandaging My grandmother rolls the hem of her shirt as she would a piece of lefse, curling it into a tight cylinder, exposing her mole-dotted stomach, a pale, wrinkled mound, skin hanging in loose piles collected at her waist. My mother wears rubber gloves as she pulls away a moistened strip of pus-yellowed bandage like old wallpaper steamed loose by the heat of gestating cells, piping a cleaning solution over the bloodied gouge.
Three Poems
Share:FacebookTwitterLinkedinTumblrPrintOde to Kelley and Dee “Here the vulgar eye will see nothing but Obscurity and will despair considerably.” –John Dee So your red powder failed to turn base metals to gold. In your balls your angels still capered, ceding a language vouchsafed few men. And late at night that must have com- forted you, as you swapped wives, and broke through that tricky seal, the demarcation be- tween science and godliness.
Two Poems
Share:FacebookTwitterLinkedinTumblrPrintCryoseism Frost quakes, rare phenomena that simulate earthquakes, rattled hundreds of residents Thursday in Darke and Miami counties in Ohio and Randolph County in Indiana, emergency management officials said. —Dayton Daily News, February 11, 2011 No, they do not simulate earthquakes at all, not the kind that rocked Japan to its core, split wide the ocean floor and shot, fast as a jet, its deep waters to the closest and farthest shores, drowning mothers and fathers, children, cousins, and friends.
... stunted as she was by a dependence on strong religion.
Amor Secco
... our shadows dancing on the walls.
The Girl at Ocean Beach
Being lonely in the fog is more predictable.
The Name of Sorrow
“Can I come in,” she said...
The Sentence
To S. H.
Launching Pad
I liked it that she’d called me Michael.
The Following Story is About a House
...the dinner that unraveled the rest of their lives.
Copy/Paste: The Original Work of Christopher P. McManus:
Share:FacebookTwitterLinkedinTumblrPrint The hyper-mediated work of Christopher P. McManus is a barrage of visual information.  Paper mache puppets, hand-drawn animations, live action video and computer-generated filters are interwoven into short narrative or interactive pieces; the cumulative effect heightened by the characteristically saturated palette of 8 bit graphics.  His over-the-top approach to art reveals a Do-It-Yourself mentality without the ‘homespun’ connotations.
The Bushwick Collective: A Photo Essay
Share:FacebookTwitterLinkedinTumblrPrint In the spring of 2012, Brooklyn native Joseph Ficalora brought together a small group of street artists to paint some murals at the intersection of Troutman Street and St. Nicholas Avenue.  Having grown up in Bushwick, and still running his family business near this intersection, Ficalora decided that it was time to infuse the drab, industrial blocks that dominate the area with a sense of color and life. 
Unexpected Machinations of Everyday Life
...Notice to Cease in bold, black, capital letters at the top.
Getting the Hang of Love
...that panoramic city of kaleidoscopic hues.
Freak of Nature
...a call from your urologist at 10 p.m. is not a delivery of good news.
Apples for the Teacher
I pictured her force-feeding me mushy, rotten apples after school...
I don’t remember how many stitches I got...
So This is Christmas
“They are capitalistic plots of the bourgeoisie designed to make people keep consuming..."
Lenora and the Laphroaig
It made sense at the time.
Wishing Daisies
That was the first time I told my mother I wished she would die.