Retirement day. Those words had resonated over my career, if you could even call it that . . .
The soil smells sweet—rich and earthy with a faint whiff of sulfur from a geyser somewhere in the vicinity.
The walls divide more than inside and out: they run a sharp line between needs and wants.
“Can you use me?” My hands keep shaking.
Saw Dr. Vaughn Romo yesterday. My second consult. We discussed the various options again. The consult was free this time, but not of arrogance . . .
Dr. Stacey Roman watched as Roy, Chief Militia for Apex building, put down the copy of Fire Next Time he had been reading to reluctantly unlock the door for her.
Time marches on! What a ridiculous cliché. If I had a minute for every time I’ve heard it, I’d . . . well, don’t get me started.
The boundary between information and inert matter was ruptured irrevocably when mankind learned what our ancestors knew before the birth of civilization: to touch is to know.
Featured: Black Interest
- Bronx Biannual Issue No. 2: The Literary Journal of Urbane Urban Literature
- The Angels’ Share
- Bandits & Bibles: Convict Literature in Nineteenth-Century America
- Iron Balloons: Hit Fiction From Jamaica’s Calabash Writer’s Workshop
- Coming Up Hot: Eight New Poets from the Caribbean
- Home: Social Essays
- Jesus Boy
- New-Generation African Poets: A Chapbook Box Set (Nne)
- New-Generation African Poets: A Chapbook Box Set (Tano)
- We Matter: Athletes and Activism