by Tracy Thomas | Jun 14, 2013
For me it’s about punching a hole through the crust of things to get to that whatever-it-is. Some writers whisper to it sweetly to coax it out, and there’s all the other ways in between. We’re connected to it way down, something we’ve met before. I think...
by Tracy Thomas | Apr 16, 2013
The language I want to speak will always save flowers from drowning. It’ll know what bones make up breath, who buries the cadaver of sound. It’ll know the...
by Tracy Thomas | Jan 8, 2013
The Clambake Refugees are running through the sprinklers of high summer. They’re careful not to dance on the crates of burning well wishers, careful not to get too close to the bird skull mill. They want to save God from the disaster of their thoughts, the mongoose...
