Train’s low moan rolls across stubble field sifts itself through trees’ branches and like waves’ foam crawls wet sand reaches a sun-bleached shell now lifted to ear in hope of catching a whisper across a crowded world an assurance, a word that waves’ rhythmic washing is more than echo of my pulse. David M. Frye…

Posting digital clippings and scraps of status on a Facebook page is a mysterious blend of personal confession and concerted performance conflating billboard and elevator phone call with street-corner soapbox watching one’s mirrored face and shaping expressions to achieve an affect’s effect while a camcorder runs behind the one-way glass of self-inflicted surveillance. David M.…

Anxiety lodges under my skin a splinter pricking a nerve when I tap my fingertip or brush it against my shirt I need emotional tweezers. David M. Frye April 20, 2009 Denton, Neb.

When oblique sunlight slices through streets in Sunday’s solitude even ordinary objects like a twisted juice box a rusted sign post a broken and barked stick cast transmogrified shadows across dewy pavement. David M. Frye April 19, 2009 Portland, Ore.

Once I learned how sea creatures died in prehistoric oceans fell like snow upon the depths and glaciated over millennia their calcified bodies forming limestone and marble depending upon pressure and time. I hold out no such hopes for the drifts of detritus blanketing the tables at Portland’s biggest garage sale: dusty blister packs of…

Once I took the day’s newspaper to my dad’s darkroom pulled the string on the light and arranged the comics page on the gridded green surface of the paper cutter lined up the Mark Trail comic with the edge of the cutter grabbed the blade’s handle and brought the cutter down slicing my left thumb…