Sunrise With Sea Monsters

Tourists, the seashore is nothing more than a dirty mile of horizon and the smell of fish tacos clinging to our clothes. Who will be the last alive to share this view? (...)

Your parka trimmed in fur

We are surrounded by milky coffee steaming out of cups on white saucers. A bit of bread, blackberry jam. Gloves float by the café window, carried off by gold leaf clouds. (...)

Dorothy and the first tornado

The sky was greening, foaming like the top of a bubbling pot. And look, there— see how the clouds climb down to dance with us? (...)

Thoughts of a drunken tourist at the bushmills whiskey distillery

In my skull there are copper stills, fermenting above sheep fields. (...)