pseudometry

I leave the compass headed southwest still enraptured by the sunset boy who looked at his reflection the whole way in the plexiglass of the green line train he kept me from finishing Siesta in Xbalba or Return to the States by Ginsberg just by being the only thing that sat completely still & quiet on the screaming snake of green line rails as we all scraped up to Boston and pushed below its threadbare roads inbound the tunnel darkness shifted behind him the reflection was not beautiful like the body that projected it the exposed dash of leg hair and the collarbones in the v-neck  the face that never stopped looking at itself was

If you've ever taken a class in creative writing, you've no doubt heard the teacher repeat the phrase, "Show, don't tell" over and over again.  While there are few hardest rules in creative writing, this persistent little mantra might be the ultimate.  Teachers and writers who write about writing spout it out all the time, but what does it mean anyway?  After, isn't all writing really "telling" on some level? It's best to view "showing" not as a single technique, but a summation of the most effective writing techniques.  If we know anything about poetry, it's that the best poetry usually conjures specific and concrete images.  Beyond languag

The trend was sweeping the whole android community: nudism. Everywhere, robots would undress and walk naked down the street, to the office, to the beach. Every type was joining in, from the latest-model EscortBots that turned heads everywhere and caused more than a little public outcry, to the old 'DustBots' who abandoned their charming little bow ties and hats (no-one much noticed that though, not when stark-naked supermodels were walking by). Zeela did not want to join in. Zeela was a SanitoBot – she cleaned toilets, and she had been programmed to respect the privacy of others. Although she could in theory have removed her clothes

I hold a microcosm in this globe, heavy on the palm of my hand, full of regret and heat. it is heft and heady smell, the unexpected roundness discovered on the ground after the season's first rain, a secret shielded by shining leaves pulled open like wet, wide eyes. The skin blushes with nervous goose-flesh, fragrant as a summer promise. It is the dark light behind your iris, lemonade on the green porch, hair stripped by the sun until it is soft and wild. It holds the flesh of the hot season tightly beneath its puckered skin and I knock on the door of its fullness with my teeth. We are sharing this summer secret together, in