Self Evident

It’s not so much the truth that bothers

Truths like lies

can sometimes shift

so whether they’re spat or whispered

they’ll always unfold

It’s the lying that kicks up the brick dust

The you can lie to them, we all do it

We’re all a them to someone

Where honesty hung off the tongue ready to dive

there’s only omission

a clean unwillingness

to break down and be an outright liar

Cowardly, feverish, but ready

my truth will lay in wait in trenches of jowls

Let the world have it

when necessary

when commanded

until then

Fuck’em my shit is self evident


out of work,
out of workman’s compensation,
he works a paper route.
Seven days a week at six a.m.,
he places the papers gently.
Never lobs them,
never leaves them in the dewy lawn .
He abides every instruction:
      If the Buick is gone, leave the paper on the porch.
      Throw it over the dogs, if they’re out.
      Come on in, help yourself to some coffee.
He delivers his papers to people:
Dusty. Double D. Agnes. Herbie.
He knows about their kids–
how many they have,
how often they visit.
They know how he takes his coffee, black.
Tony Mac.
Husband of Sue.
Father of three.
Retired machine operator,
with bad back, neck, knees.
Their paperboy,
a man measured in more than column inches, rides a Harley without a helmet, drives his mother to her appointments, and has two Shih Tzu, Zed and Dude.
Little do they know
about the Thursdays
before the dumpsters roll through,
when he works over the trash waiting to be collected.
He collects the remnants of lives discarded, and leaves newspapers in exchange for their VCRs, lawn chairs, trinkets.
He takes his coffee black and quick
and returns to his route. He’s home by 7 to help his wife off to work.
In with her sandwich, a note
scratched out on a purple Post-it:
Tonight, you will have a present waiting, my love.
by Autumn Konopka

The Ceiling

The view swallows me whole

from down here

it’s cold

i look up

into the light

outlining my hands with darkness

as i reach

past my station

and my level

and my class

and my knowing

into tomorrow

pushing a lil further

the sticky bits of yesterday’s dreams

clung to my skin

broken stems of possibilities

scrape and bleed

past more dusty realities


straining my arms until they were sore…

further still

Letters To A Stranger

Come in

Tell me of your trip

of memories gained

pictures taken

food eaten

Tell me of curries and roads I can’t pronounce

gates swinging

of your father’s stare

when he realized how much you look like him now

Tell me about mountains and city-scapes

hungry faces

yellow eyes and green irises

About your dream girl just there

Come in quick

Did his eyes swell with pride

or a glint of selfishness

wishing he was young again, undoing certain choices

Tell me about the train you missed

the mists over fields

the mansions and shacks

how the words jumbled around in your mouth before

now familiar

just easing out

Tell me of oceans

and time zones


Speak to me until we are no longer strangers

but kin

establishing a reconnection

Do the men where you come from sway when they talk

Do the women where you come from shuffle their feet as they walk

and even though the stars are the same

if you tell me

that you laid there

under their luminous glow, wishing

I will know they must’ve been brighter than any stars

I have ever known

I Can Do Bad All By Myself

woman-with-attitude-pinkHere emoting into a pillow

that won’t hold me back

I didn’t need new

when I had you.

Ramble on,

copper crystals

drip from his lips

hold no weight.

I am silver and spun honey

a caramelized glazed piece in the wind

remember that.

Nails break,

I don’t.



I have a feeling that my boat
has struck, down there in the depths,
against a great thing.

                               And nothing
happens! Nothing!… Silence… Waves…
–Nothing happens? Or has everything happened,
and are we standing now, quietly, in the new life?
Juan Ramón Jiménez (translated by Robert Bly)