You can taste the starved love Rubbing the sleepy genocide eyes Of tiny children With history pinned inside Their orphaned clothes They...

One night while we slept Dreaming of forests And inhabited attics And circuses Impossible spaces Tilting platforms Sad, beautiful...

As I heft the suitcase onto the station’s tarmac The rivers of her tears are pooling in the corners of my eyes Grant Shimmin is a South...

not quite It’s not snowing, but it’s not not snowing either. Up by the Georgia border, we’d call anything wet and white “snow,” but out...

Maybe we’re satellites Sending signals to each other But never touching Ramona Gore is currently a Cinema and History major at Binghamton...

~Venice, February 2002 Empty-eyed, paper-mache bird heads stare through windows, hang with beaks turned down toward the street. Red,...

Neon t-shirt of Tweety Bird scowling Does it look like I care? because you don’t spare anyone’s feelings. Sheer leopard print blouses...

There is too much. There is not enough. If there is an in-between, I don't possess the scale to calibrate that balance. I am what I own,...

Dear Dead Brother #5 (Passed on June 16, 2004) Last night, my partner and her dog slept on me The closer I get to real love Livelier...

cry fowl yard fowl flee the sight to cower lest they perish from the hawks in flight tumbling down as they cherish prodigal ghosts it was...

The Dream Is Over pt. I It was all good once. Football games on Friday nights and maybe second base under the bleachers before the last...

We received a King Cake at the office the other day Part coffee cake, part cinnamon roll Bathed in an icing of yellow, green and purple A...

THE MALL OF MEN She chooses men the same way you’d pick a detergent bar or a cereal box at a hyperstore Carefully; after looking at the...

Shoveling Out Dust haloed, scratcheyed, kneedeep in grain, we shovel toward the buried shriek of the auger. Our masks press sharply into...

yes, i’m the heat of a promise of snow. my friends think i’m a Vegetarian, so i lie and say i am. if only i could have black sunglasses,...

Love Poem to Myself, Number Five Forty-two. That’s how old you are when you finally put down the knife aimed at your own chest. That’s...

after working like one of those first social work jobs after having just got married head over heels madly in love on school st. in...

Bill Resurrected just a day after hearing of his passing I saw Bill at the liquor store tonguing a toothpick, signing contracts in the...

That year morphine became a minuet, Sweet pianissimo. Its soft pedals stilled Anguish, reproached relentless timekeeping — Tick, tick —...

The Monster of Old It was a horrifying creature, long pointed nose, buzzing wings, eyes deep black in a circle of garish red. I didn’t...