Short Works for the Peripatetic Web Surfer
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by Michael Constantine McConnell
Dog-bard, a wall arose. Soon, a red, nude man-era stole Gail of deli, and, lo, my tit-net carts bade, “trap millions’ parts,” but a snag rose many fits, and I’d reward no cabs. Eve[n] Eve’s bacon drawer did nastify names, organs, a tub, straps. No ill-imparted, abstract-entity mold nailed foliage. Lots are [...]
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by Michael Constantine McConnell
A small prayer
forgot how to fly,
clings to a giant
beanstalk, afraid
to be eaten
if it ever finds
the nerve to climb
the rest of the way.
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by Michael Constantine McConnell
Mother, I’m falling
apart and don’t know
what to do. I’ve turned
a good woman’s love
into ink. You taught
me how to read,
and, now, I am a man
of words. Mother, shrink
me into a seed; rest
me on a delicate
pillow. I need whisky
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by Michael Constantine McConnell
Got tore up again, my face
a bloated meatloaf, a roadmap
of burst blood vessels and sadness.
I drink whiskey to baptize
the maggots I feel squirming
in my belly, unraveling the core,
building highways and fleeing
to the suburbs. I blow kisses
into the wind, hope one will carry
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by Michael Constantine McConnell
I remember the beginning,
when winged night led
his mistress to Gomorrah,
where they would prosper
and raise a family
of bratty little sinners.
We once discussed such
things over breakfasts,
and flowers stemmed
from our words, hung
in the air like kites.
Then the wind lost
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