If J.M. Spugg inspired anything like admiration or fellow-feeling, it was among people who had never actually interacted with J.M. Spugg.

On my fourth birthday, my grandfather and I lowered a mango sapling into the ground together, his large loamy palms covering mine. This summer, when we sliced them open—mangoes the color of marigolds—I couldn’t get over the fact that this moment wouldn’t exist if I didn’t. That without really knowing, my grandfather had written me into the red-brick house’s legacy.

Lloyd is dressed like a candy bar in an all-too-bright gas station. Gleaming red tracksuit,
brand name under the sternum like a label.

When she left, the winds picked up and the bloated sun filled the horizon with fire, the sky turning ochre. She hurried in the heat, leaving behind what she called a tribe, not a homeland.

how do I begin?

The Universe dreamed I’d come to its restaurant. I needed to pass the time before my train home.

the highway asphalt. reeks of exhaust and burnt rubber. the cars and trucks go by. the sun boiling and you rotting.

snow crystals
on my neighbor’s windows …
Foreclosure askew

& more

Empty Basket

Driving down the boulevard, I see large trees decorated with pink and white blossoms, evergreens tower over houses, trees flourish with spring greenery.