Fiction and Poetry

Anthropology, what use are you in these days of singular, weekly visits to the market seeing only masked faces searching for a carton of...

In my loft A broken screen, dirty windows. A year later I still see the rooftops of the school across the street. No children or buses...

Kathy died on Wednesday, Nancy on Saturday. One from broken nerves, the other a broken heart. Still this morning the dog came in the dark...

I remember Pal, big and slow, his lowered head as I sat, my feet, toes pointed down in dusty sneakers, touching the middle of his belly...

On this morning's walk in the mountains by the river. A robin turning to look A gray squirrel chattering A black butterfly circling...

Walking along the rocky shore of Santa Cruz, and the fog rolling in, I remember seagulls gliding and swooping within its grey rolls,...

From the scaly serpent’s mouth, a moment stops the ticking of a clock. One number, one point five, now turned two. A crowd gasps for air,...

The boys are out with their basketballs hugged close or bounced high and caught. The boys are out with pants falling around their...

In the tall grass along the path’s edge before the tangled branches of the elm, the oak, the pine shut out the light, sideways and...

At Agua Fria and Camino Alire: Through the red light Broken down car – Chihauhau grinning. ~~ Gust of wind A flock takes flight - Dry...