surveillance is heavy. you can never make it. where do they come from, plucking shoots of hopes, prying into the scales? nobody knows. they are the space-crawlers. they are the attic-thumpers. they live in furniture. they eat dust and pain. they resemble dead spiders. they could be invulnerable. contortionists changing the shape of ours-to-come, they

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Sleepover weekend at the Websters’, traveling carnival on the school playground; fireworks, cotton candy, staying up late. Our ride spinning like a pinwheel, more like a slingshot – cables snapped, women screamed, bodies flew a mile a minute. I came to in a circle of enquiring faces, flashing red lights, next to a wall of

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I TOTALLY care about the earth. I have an eco-house okay? I keep out the riff-raff with super tall hedges maintained by using sustainable gardening with native plant species, of course. My gardener wanted to invade with some fabulous plant from his native land but it wasn’t native to here so I told him no

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“Oh! I almost forgot!” She stands abruptly up from the kitchen table, a mischievous little grin on her face. “I have to remember to call Dennis.” She writes the name “Denise” on the whiteboard near the refrigerator on which she makes notes to herself about what she needs to do or items she needs to

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oh this sickening gang.they write poetry poem after a poem exploding out of their PC’s or notebooks- sick and dry as dead flowers they fill up pages and pages with bad poetry and submit them to all the little magazines and of course most of them get published they live with they mothers and/or they

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