I never write about paradise. About the region between familiar hands and my own, about the person who makes the perilous journ...

I warn you, the words may be more malignant than beautiful.   It’s a story about a boy and his plant, the seed that took so long to spr...

Her soul is not a color, but a riotous scene from Hamlet, steeped with tragedy and the sound of bliss.  She leaves the room like a gong, ec...

he won't say it, but I know he wants to. you can see it when we're kissing. or breathing. making the kind of eye contact only...

words are supposed to have meaning. kisses are supposed to be soft. love is supposed to be infinite, and bones are supposed to be...

I have this month's exhaust accumulating behind my eyelids, a compilation of non-responses, excuses he planted like common roses, a...

Today is September 28th, 2015. I've been biting down on the abstract for about ten months now, writing poems about anonymous heartb...