this girl she moves in bell-bottoms    smiles walks down the sidewalk strokes the strands of hair falling just above her breasts her crotch still burns

5 pm, in the hair salon. A haggard face stares back, hair in tin foil, legs kicked up on a dirty, torn, burgundy ottoman. It’s

Dear Trent, Hi, it’s me. It’s been just over fifteen years since we last saw each other. Life sure has changed since the wee hours

Standing in front of my students, my heart beats with the rhythm of the classroom: clock ticking in strained rotation, papers rustling through thick binder

Humidity hung in the air, clogging the metro tunnels. I emerged from the dank underground to find sun sparkling through the shadows of trees as