Laura-Marie Taylor new giant I am becoming so tall no one will recognize me when we go a-caroling.
by Erik Lundgren I’m sure you noticed my hat. Go ahead and take a good look at it. Almost all people stare at my hat. I once first realized that a man was blind by noticing that he wasn’t staring at my hat. Children giggle and exclaim about my hat in too-loud-a-voice to their parents,… Read More »
We’re not good friends. If I don’t buy him some books, I’m going to feel crappy, but if I do, I’ll still feel crappy, so I’m in a bad position. Anyone should be allowed to ask for anything, and I should be strong enough to feel okay with a “yes” or “no,” but I’m not.… Read More »
Laura-Marie Taylor ghost The dead man who looks for his wife could make you cry, his teenaged daughter beside him on the buggy-seat. The husband-dad goes up to the farmhouse after getting directions in town for maybe the hundredth time. “Is Mrs. Ruggs here?” he asks the woman who opens the door. “No, no one… Read More »
Is suicide the ultimate in selfishness, or is a person left without a choice? When they get so sick— hitting bottom, and no one can help. I tend to think about the family, who has to clean all that shit up. No matter how well-intentioned you are, the kids aren’t going to understand why you… Read More »
I compared six clowns who all looked the same. I checked their ears and eye-wrinkles then counted the polka- dots on their hats. It took my wife to tell me, “You’re a lunatic. Four is missing a bowtie.” My career as a Mensa strategist is over!
Did you publish poems in Pocket Trick? Please give me permission to put them here.
I didn’t go into the question booth even once. Yet couldn’t avoid conversations, like with the lady who wants to recruit me to her inspirational cult and liked strawberry with chicken, as well as some random TL from CTB who spoke to me as if I was his best friend. I went along. He was… Read More »
I dreamed my dad was a Mexican composer who only came to see us in California every few years. When he was visiting, I was supposed to be really happy, but I hated him. I spoke to him only in English, and he spoke to me only in Spanish, but I wasn’t really listening anyway.… Read More »
I remember sometimes my parents would eat ice cream after putting me and my brother to bed. The clinking of the spoon on the cup. I remember when I was setting type for the first time. Some of the fonts were sparse—stolen letters? I thought a “p” could be an upside-down “d.” But I was… Read More »