by Jess Earl Mama told me that thunder is just the sound of angels bowling. The angel outside my window doesn’t have hands but maybe it just can’t bowl, like how Katie can’t eat peanut butter. The angel doesn’t look like the ones in Mama’s paintings; it looks like a…
by Clayton Heilman The interpretive dance, fueled by some inner desire — a state of lowered inhibitions, allowing this fluid-mechanical motion. The body weaves noiselessly in-between the contrast of dark and light. Spinning across shadows, strobing flesh through light beams. The room lacks power, save that which gushes from deep…