Across the old woman’s ceiling, the stain spreads its puckered areola, water hooping frayed ripples in the plaster where something broke, leaked in the apartment upstairs, where naked lights shine cold-clear as through windows cobalted with Madonna and child. This godforsaken place.
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It rained that day. His woman was fucking phantoms in the shadows. Doorways opened into empty space five stories up. He was a ghost among real animals. His lover was rooting for the hyenas. She could barely see him. He embarrassed the
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The town was small. The museum was small, free, and uncrowded. He looked at the painting with the artist’s name faded to nothing. It stayed with him all that summer and the years that followed. A smiling girl with a sleeping dog.
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Stylish blonde hair. Dull green eyes. Manicured hands usher a couple into a small house. “So, this is it. It’s a great neighborhood. And . . . I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but there are a few great schools within a
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Love is like a yard. It takes work with a red rusty wheelbarrow, clippers, and a new rake to keep it beautiful. It is the root of all happiness. The flowering greenery. Danny P. Barbare resides in the Upstate
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FROZEN TIGERS ACROSS THE CITY / DAVID SPICER OUT OF GLARING STATIC DAYS / BEN NARDOLILLI METRONOME / JENNIFER STASAK THREE / CATE COMPTON OLD WOOD PANELING AND AMERICAN BEER / CINDY M EMCH A FOOTNOTE TO MY SPIRITUAL JOURNEY /
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