Travellers follow the sunset, the one over deserts and mountains, the jungle and the farthest southern tip of the continent.
She notices the sentences that end in prepositions. She notices your gnarled grammar. She remembers whole conversations of words you might have said.
You can mark your thoughts by the rows you’ve done, the ratio of warp to worry.
In a sea of breathlessness, the urgency of barely heard conversations and outfit assessments, the dance party winds down.
In search of a human heart that would never know sadness.
On really hot days everything slows except for the blood rushing to your skin and the water rushing to your skin.
How can a word with so many loaded meanings be applied to an object or a piece of art? Does it matter?
A reverie on loneliness, hunger, appetite and the magic of making your own sandwich.
A quest for obscure and legendary treasure winds through mountain passes and monkey-guarded temples.
Scoop the dirt in your hand and think about how hard it is to find dirt when you need it, about the clumsiness of roots.
The last trout was seen the year my father was born; you might be able to write a poem about the things you find in the river now, or a concept album.
Dedicated to the species that inspires the normally hardhearted to sing sappy doo-wop songs about kittens.
Maybe it’s too easy to have such a flexible word that encompasses so much. Is there anything that can’t be a metaphor for love?
She wasn’t particularly consumed with fire. She didn’t dream of sparks. She was enamored of loving something, only to destroy it.
Slough off the papery bruises of the previous year and emerge tender, anew.
These are the gifts that will wait for her to tinker and try. They’ll be here when she’s ready.
Gifts for the hopelessly angry, for the malcontent, for hearts with bills to pay.
A gift guide for those who will someday seek meaning in our dust.
Out here, in the silence, you are actually as alone as you feel.
Let’s drive far away from here: away from being too young to write good poetry, away from this guilty, secret wish to be really, really pretty.
Life is a series of disasters that don’t kill us, missed punchlines in a long practical joke.