We listen when he picks up the brush. And then we watch when he puts it down. When he falls down, we gasp. When he gets up, if he does, we clap our hands.
Ricky Garni’s pen name is a really clever combo between a pasta that is often served al dente, and an obscure Italian barbershop in…
Read the full bioI faced her toward the river in a shirt/or mid-length camisole. That’s all I had/ to work with in a minute’s time and dirt./ She gives the composition something bad/ to hold against a shadow on the wall.
Beauty is. We are driving back from my daughter’s birthday dinner at the Chop House on the far side of town. The roads are slick with iced dew from falling snow.
I pick my path through the deep snow and kneel. Mittens off, macro setting on, I still my breath and focus on the shot. The world as I know it freezes, catches its breath and waits for Mother in a Red Coat to snap her shot
I'm approaching 200 stitches in my career/ since going down the ice hill we made/opening a fire hydrant/ in Drayton Plains, Michigan / lectured by a fireman/ who was quite hot.
This is how I study history. I go there./ I see the sights and smell the smells/ which often entail fresh/ dung, spring/ rain, and copious animal odors.
Trying to wrap my mind around living on a tropical island for thirteen years and never once seeing the ocean, I stumbled through my Indonesian vocabulary to say, It’s good. It’s big.
Read more Poetry or Postcard Prose
