FRESHFLY
NEWEST FLY
outsider’s haiku
fall by the wayside it’s where the real action is & bring bail money
FRESHNEWEST FLY
fall by the wayside it’s where the real action is & bring bail money
FRESHRECENT FLY
it doesn’t matter though everybody’s lost their appetite family won’t help my sneakers stink I need a shave blurry eyes and old cigarette butts my life feels stupid…
FRESHRECENT FLY
My feet are tender but not legal currency What’s a big toe worth?
FRESHRECENT FLY
The machine apologized again. Very polished. No spelling mistakes. Almost tender. It had just spent an hour doing exactly what I told it not to do. The men…
Coming soon Open Arts Press
Small books and modest claims. A new series of single-author poetry chapbooks.
Older work dragged back into the light before everybody forgets it exists.

A quick hit of micro-fiction. Click the fly. Five clean hits and civilization is briefly restored.

Her motivation was simple enough. “Why should the kids get all the presents?” a red-clad woman said as…
Lie to me →Photographs, diagrams, collections, graphics and visual evidence that absolutely nobody requested.
Look anyway →No title. No author. Read first; meet the culprit afterward.
After waking up from a four
day binge of alcohol, hash,
pills, I found myself lying
next to a woman I didn’t
love, though she said that
she loved me,
the woman I loved had
marched out of my world:
beside the bed, the floor
was cluttered with empty
wine bottles, over-flowing
ashtrays, take-out-food
cartons, plates of
rotting food and the
interest of a large number
of flies:
I got up, vomited, smoked
a joint and phoned the
woman I loved and told
her what a pathetic
sorry-ass loser I was and
asked for her
forgiveness and said that I
loved her and wanted to
be with her:
"That’s nice to hear but
don’t ever fucking call me
again" she said terminating
the call:
I opened a beer, it wasn’t
going to help but I
couldn’t think of anything
else to do:
I looked out across the
park, I drank from the
bottle waiting for the
woman I didn’t love to
wake up so I could tell
her that I didn’t love her
and that she should
leave:
the day wasn’t looking
good and when I looked
into a mirror, I saw that
neither was I,
I drank the beer,
opened another
and waited.
Pick a bottle. We take no responsibility for what happens next.
Paste your own prose. Nothing leaves your browser. Then let the machine make a small mess of it.
75 pieces. Nine years of poetry, fiction, art, humor and other things that probably should have been supervised.

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