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

I had lost touch with comfort untilI met you; the sense returningto my fingertips.Holding you as if I hadn’t seen you in years,warm hands on

by. Philip G. Steverson Hour 1A boy followed a sign that leadhim to an uncharted garden of his opposite.A focused boy he was— until fragrancesand

You’ve been there through thick and thin.Releasing messages from the ink in my pen.Who are you, to which i depend?Who are you, if alive, I’d