Sun burns mountain fog Even the buildings are ghosts Glass eyes watch us pass
Author: Ben Butina
This evening, this light, and your laugh, All deserve a fine epigraph. So quick, call a poet! Hurry, don’t blow it! After dusk they charge time-and-a-half.
The gym class voice from the airport (or is it the bus depot?) interrupts the regularly scheduled thunder to deliver its nightly warning like one of those psychedelic bull horn shouts from a Beatles album where you can’t make out a word of what Paul is saying but you know […]
I am alone on the porch except for you, little girl we are the only two around who enjoy this soggy heat. You land on my ankle, and begin your preparation the ritual passed down from your ancestors. I begin my own rite, the snap of my lighter a flame […]
If I can hear your stereo down here on my porch, then the volume must be loud in your car. Loud enough to rattle your windows, if you have a subwoofer. (And I bet you do.) I wish that I could stop your car, just a for a moment, an […]