Focusing  Setting goals  is an obsession  that pushes 

It was midway through the wake’s visiting hours, and the mortuary’s tiny chapel had grown crowded. 

Macapá city, the capital of Amapá state, is a unique Brazilian city crossed by the Amazon River.

It’s getting louder inside and outside at the picnic tables under the yellowish canopy. Naptime is over, and...

By Tom Campbell. “I erased the line with my bare heel. But this chook kept on looking. ” My brother and I drew a line in the dirt. We held the bird’s head, so it had to see. It looked up the line, then down the line, up, down. This was our favorite and only game that winter. I erased the line with my bare heel. But this chook kept on looking. Up, down, up, down.  We yelled at it, hissed at it. My Brother had the harried hands of a bed-wetter. We couldn’t make the bird stop. 

Books expire the same as people. It was a brave thing. It was a scary thing. Sleeping rough on the streets for a year...

You and I — just married, like cattle to the herd, unsurely out of childhood, learning to love. The night was still not quiet...

“When they switched to hi-def, and my TV stopped working, I draped the old console— twenty-six inches from Curtis Mathes—in a quilt ...

You held out until the fall. You understood that to disappear in the months of such life beforehand would have had dire effects, and...

By Francesco Capasso "This work aims to reflect on identity and self-search, a current theme that poses questions. It attempts to break the traditionalist ideology that society often imposes by addressing the self within "nature." Our ancestors founded their values and ideas about race, gender, and sexuality through pre-established and imposed conditions found in nature. Society forces us to identify ourselves within some traditional/perfect/natural categories. Does nature re

She talks to meAbout dyeing itI talk to her about...dying

I knew her as a horse splashed seafoam whiteAtop the wine-dark sea of her bodyI knew her as a friend before she carried her hundred...

He died on a steamboatgambling his way back East.

Chest pressed against hera city Angellessdressed in concrete skin,listening to her hum, a hymn.

The broken ones can't find home, so they wander and live in cardboard boxes...

“…Why do they call you Consequential I?”And he’s all, “Well, because my name’s Ivan.”So I say, “Sure, but why Consequential?…”

… Have mercy on this little soul who cannot summon any strength, who cannot forward any goal, who cannot find the height or length…

… my imagination spins entire lives lived in the infinite spaces between seconds.”

…I wonder what tempest simmers in your ribcagewhat passions I could unleash…

I saved a scrap of paper that you wrote my name on, probably to remind yourself that I exist