lost & found in flyover country

Late in the morning I take my knife to the field, cut the cabbages free from their umbilical roots, strip off the outer… More.

Shall we get our fair share of abuse today in this flyover town, my hands stained with ink and it’s pouring down rain,… More.

One more morning in the company of backyard birds, my neighbor rolls by on his blue motorcart, his dog alongside, passing through remnants… More.

Listen: about that history, the thing nobody tells you is that you can learn it or ignore it, either way you’re going to… More.

The ants are random scouts seeking what ants seek when they come into my kitchen from the garden, their aphid harvest stowed in… More.

There are no empty houses in the city on the hill spirits in every pantry, dust of the ages in curtainless rooms no… More.

During the pandemic they called it a diaper, called it capitulation to deep-state coercion, the mark of the sheeple, they refused it and… More.

The songbird flew into the plate glass window on the second floor of the office tower, dropped like a fallen soldier to the… More.

They were a gift, the sort that comes with obligation: plant me somewhere before I expire and so when I awaken at 3… More.

She’ll find you out walking, this shy god who left her golden girdle on the chair by the door, went out barefoot and… More.