Author Archives: Matt Tooley

Luminescent blondes, these fully-clothed stalks of corn eye the stormy skies.

The storm clouds were dark; the line of trees, darker still. And yet we walked on.

The man in the moon, mouth agape, eyes frozen, lets loose a silent scream.

Bubble gum must be chewed within before bubbles can blossom without.

Unkempt, with curly hair and chalk stains, he tilled my mind and–thus–groomed me.

Twelve American flags wave in the wind on the roof of the Citgo.

He threw a question into the air. It lingered and dropped fast, uncaught.