Troy Cunio lives everywhere but usually in Orlando, Florida. He started to ramble as soon as he graduated high school. Since then, his travels have taken him to Panama City, Macchu Picchu and more sordid corners of Peru, as well as the Bahamas, the entire northern coast of Spain, Munich, Salzburg, and various places around the United States including remote parts of the Southwest and Southeast. The next major outing will take him to Belize, Mexico, the West Coast, and parts unknown for as long as his cash holds out. Cunio has had poems published in Strong Verse, and Sweet Wolverine. Read his collection, Inkstained Heartbeats or better still, book him for a reading.
More from The Journal
By Robert McDonald
I touch my wallet in my front pocket, I could do it, purchase // them all, leave the overflowing suitcase on a bus stop bench/ for you, oh stranger, you oh person or persons unknown ...
down a washboard roadside through an old forest, / departing the copse of a quiet village, / we spy a youth dangling protein by the tail,
By Henry Walters
We followed her in, a stray, the fattest & first, the temple cat./ In a niche by the altar she crouches, watches them come: the/ mad parade we’d wanted, this troupe of heretics — the ass,/ alpaca, gyrfalcon — unbroken line of celebrants, creatures ...
By Ksenia Rychtycka
Mother comes to me as I’m making honey cake, / measuring out sugar then whipping eggs. / Never mind that Mother left this earth / eighteen months earlier...
The trolley bus won’t go. / Its reins have fallen / from society's hands.
By Maryann Corbett
I miss things: swooping, diving, passionate voices/ in several African tongues, so far beyond me/ they might as well have beamed from the constellations.