Pulled by a fragile memory of an unpardonable deed, you amble crookedly to the door. Relief lies just beyond –yet you circle back, struggling with consumption of circular destination. The urgency disappears– under your toes, under the long dark arch of toenails, tracking back and forth, back and forth –paw prints coloring your relief.

After talking it over with the judges, we decided we need to run the September contest again in October. The reason why we’re doing this is because we made a mistake in the rules. Last month I said you should “write like you’re going to have some fun.” We didn’t mean that. Just like last…

Congratulations to Rbibeau, Teter, Doreen B, Darrell, and Jim Harstad. You’re all monthly winners in our Year of the Pig writing contest. That means each of you has won 1000000000 Bamboo Bucks. Oh, sorry, my finger got stuck on the 0 key. You’ve actually each won 10 Bamboo Bucks, which is still a lot of…

Hanging out bareheaded, baldheaded in this sultry summer sun, gentle sea breezes tickling my ears, I think maybe there really is something to this fresh start idea and that just maybe those old worn-out and dying follicles will be inspired by this fresh open-ness to nouveau riche lushness, excuse my French. And isn’t that what…

I asked a palmist for my future. Looking at her, I asked impolitely, “What do you mean ‘used up?” She replied, “You married flowers.”

Dream Lover as if in a dream sliding off a silver moonbeam you come and lay down by my side – you touch my bare shoulder, wash my back with your hair, and press your scented body to mine. Your voice is wet with promise to love me till the moon shadows leave the wall,…

Drama In our small world we create drama to others – curiosity to the world – unnoticed.

Moonlight trembles in silvered pools on the grass, and we are dancing. I didn’t know you could waltz, you murmur; I didn’t know either. It is a slow melody, and we are in each other’s arms forever: a full step back, to the side, half a step forward. I do not even sense the futility…

My memory of home sweeps like the trade winds past clothes lines –billowing frayed bedsheets, jiggling pinned cotton underwear, knee-high socks and plastic zip lock bags turned inside out– flowing through jalousie windows pausing at rice cake and fruit offerings to deceased Buddhist elders, chasing fat flies from soft tofu, green onions and thin beef…

I’m holding a candle. When I open the door, although there’s no breeze, it begins to flutter, casting odd shadows on the wall as I descend the stairs to the basement, but it burns well enough to blunt the darkness as I step down into it. Nearing the bottom, I can see someone’s standing there,…