Explore

Grass grows, birds fly, waves pound the sand. I beat people up.

After my father passed away, I’d go back to stare at the cave paintings.

At night the voices on the patio sound like small darting birds.

This is the stupid math of loving another human being.

Michael McGriff

My baby was calling to me. But I was welded to the mountain.

He says to his boots, “Well, suppose we went for fish.”

We crossed the length of Iran to reach a lake so big they called it a sea.

The keys look like Tommy’s teeth once he began to appreciate meth.

This was his sky, his clouds rucked up over the fields. His country.

You try to confess your crime of turning the world into words.

Four wings of silk without a trace of dust perched upon a silken line.

All roads lead to Rome, but all trails take you to Oklahoma.

His voice was wrung with panic as he spit curses like spoiled milk.

A clumsy coyote descends an old hill of garbage. Death is visiting.

She was here. She could not go on. It was the end—the end of the world.

There was a ladder planted dead center in a field of high, thin grass.

Somehow my confession became a sharp knife I kept hidden in a drawer.

I’ve got other plans. And they don’t center on ringnecks.

A dangerous heat came from him, the heat of some interior decay.

Children were driven by deep yearnings that should be satisfied.

Hemingway’s Royal typewriter sat atop a volume of Who’s Who.

The Morgan nosed her for another carrot. She petted his neck. She had loved to canter.

I have placed my thoughts for you in a nest of copper shavings.

Jack picked me up in a car with a greasy-potato sex smell.

He was caught. Of course he was caught. He was always caught.

The mountains out your window make Central Park feel rinky-dink.

We were assigned straight to the lion’s muzzle, the Sardasht front.

Rays burst from behind the mountain, sweep the broad beach.

“We must also buy twenty acres or so. Life is becoming impossible.”