Flock

The drink might kill me: I don’t care.I type a word, I tilt my tone of voiceto reach someone I think will need it.There’s so little concrete here:a black keyboard, my stubbled jowls,dishwasher churning tides inside itself.“Be the river and the boulderin the river.”...

Passenger

They’re always strangers,these riders,made strangerby blurred vision.Their faces—thumbprintson my useless eye. Mark J. Mitchell was born in Chicago and grew up in southern California. Previous to the pandemic, he worked as a tour guide in San Francisco. The temporary...

Times the hard way

The air makes certainthat everyone is threatened.The space between people teeters –we chew fear,rinse with the dictator’s beer.Looking behind,we see a life we got used to,that now stares sullenlylike an abandoned dogcrapping in its water bowl.The lungs count their...

Ambulance Sirens and Epitaphs

Alone. I’m eternally sitting next to empty indentions in couch cushions; leviathans churn in stomach acid again, thoughts of you stir them from their rest. Vomit and grease? Odd company to keep, but they’re all I have left of you & him & me together. No photos...