3 Poems

3 Poems

I Have Been a Liar I have lied, a cowardly man, a lover of your kind; merely in mind; movie-making, I have spent my seasons coming, counting time by tissue: quivering cock, finger-clenched, crazed. read more
GMR

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Infamous

breaks the pattern of pre- fixes and suffixes not taking the stress:   which makes me think: muh-fuhs as in what you muh-fuhs lookin at?   which could have been an infamous last question, given that those muh-fuhs stared at me all the hard-rockier   and...

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The Island

Owen watched Aubrey press her palm into a thick patch of speckled moss girdling the trunk of an old Douglas fir. The move was gentle and precise, how a mime might seek an invisible wall, and he couldn’t help but imagine her locked up in some dark basement, kidnapped, as he suspected she’d been as a child. read more

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Green Mountains Review, based at Johnson State College in Vermont, is a biannual, award-winning literary magazine publishing poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, literary essays, interviews, and book reviews by both well-known writers and promising newcomers.

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Nocturne

Nocturne

Lying beside me with his head on my chest, Strauss, a white and black English Setter I had recently rescued from the local animal shelter, cocked his ears. I glanced up from my book into the velvety darkness outside the second-story bedroom window which, during the day, offered a charming view of the historic mule barge canal as it skirts the Delaware River and threads under the low, arched bridges through New Hope, Pennsylvania, a gentrified mill town just north of where George Washington crossed the Delaware to sneak up on the Hessians. read more
Hail the Size of

Hail the Size of

the cubicle where we daily toil, the demoniac cackling erupting from the empty spaces down the hall, size of an in-box crammed with memos and motions, size of the St. Louis Arch, read more
The Sun-and-Moon Book

The Sun-and-Moon Book

When my daughter was three, in those young mothering years of just her and I, the vibrant autumn days when we walked along our Vermont dirt road, picking knotty apples from wild roadside trees, and out of sheer rural loneliness I wished for someone to stop and talk, I wrote a novel. read more
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