by Carol Casey The path is trodden, dusty, level.You know it will take youwhere many have gone. Step off—tangles of brambles,sometimes with blackberries,more often with little clawsthat catch on clothes and skin;and tortuous tree roots—inconvenient, sacred data unearthed—subterranean snakelets somehowsifted into snarls for feet to catch.There are stems that twine…
by Rob Simpson Staring out the window, my senior year of high school, I would hope a friend walked by. When he or she did, I’d have an excuse to ask to use the bathroom, run my schoolmate down, sneak off to smoke a cig. Or talk about boobs. Or…
by Rob Simpson You can imagine what a group of sailors look like in the Bahamas after three weeks at sea. If you can’t, it looks like white skin turning red before your eyes and tan lines at right angles. It looks like beer spilling from solo cups, splashing poolside,…