The Arrest, in all its surreal narrative trappings, supercars, and Hollywood theatrics, wants to know if words can save us in a dystopia.
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I come home sad so I slice potatoes thin and fry them with oil and onions, keeping watch to flip at the perfect time, right when they crisp up golden. I remember
At Waitomo, New Zealand If there is no heaven I’ll make due rest my head in the cave of constellations. Look up at The Milky Way pressed against stony pomegranate flesh.
I.I sweep my porch in the sticky Georgia heat. I sweep, sweep, sweep like the dirt and the stray pine straw and the single bird feather will disappear as easily as the
Our bracken pool tidesin the small of your back. I move the earthor the earth is you or⠀⠀⠀ the earth moves usthick in the shadow-dark air.⠀⠀⠀ This once gravityis the law we
Matthew Woodman teaches at CSU Bakersfield and is a graduate of the IAIA MFA program in Santa Fe, NM. He is the author of This Is Not Your Moon, and his poem
I got our mouse. In a glue-trap on the basement landing. I shined my cellphone and it tried to free itself by undulating like this dancer we saw on Make America Fun
Solid Water I wait for the want to come inside of mewhile watching the morning commute near the Amstel. A stork on a houseboat does the samewhile hundreds of cyclists navigate narrow lanes. She
after Hozier Test me again. Let me fail so deliriously. Head rush.Breath hot. Let me feel all my inner intricates only God knows how much I’ve
1. at cracked marrow of the double yellow line extraction crane buckles down bare fork prong crookless end of
each morning, spangling the loton sidewalks, at crosswalks, across the new campusas if grackle stanchion, as if