There he sat, butt muscles to leather,seemingly custom made to his skin afterhours of full glasses of brown liquorbeing consumed to their clear base state.

And then some man; obviously taller than IHad the nerve to stop me,Hand me a flyer and say,You should be trading Forex, my brother.Piss off.

For the past year, my best friend hasbeen my cell phone.Not for social media. I hate social media, but social media plays a part in

Keep your pockets to your hands.Off of the smooth, coconut skinof that womanwho is defenseless, shields down,almost like the movie you watchedabout that man in

Will I live to plant my seeds inthis tainted soil we call Earth?Will I live to introduce them to the airthey may breathe? Will I

My thoughts call me too often,telling me:They think too much about the things tomorrow may bring.Thinking too much about our death and the songs people

I often think about the murders that occur when bedtimes stories are told. Did it get old;my rabbit foot dipped in gold.Living life as if

You’re being is compostto all thoughts deemed sinfulby my grandmother.You plant things in my mindthat invoke me to release him,loosen the noose around hisdark, nappy

by. Philip G. Steverson I’mNotPridefulEnoughToNotSayThatIMiss you. I miss you.

The father of my being is the father of yours.The planting of his seed constructed our doors,leading to the obvious teachingsof right and wrong;comparing squares

I wanted to write a poem today.Nothing had come to mind and thenI thought about my clothes,I thought about my cardigan;I thought about her in

Honeybees and food trucks.Blueberry flavored pot-roasts.Your hands around her thighs. Dead corpse in a movie theater.Wet T-shirts in winter Minnesota.Puffer coats in summer Arizona.Your finger