Nick M

I've recently been featured by the Literary Magazine Rib Cage, which is an amazing new magazine started by one of the most magical people on the planet. 

You check out my feature here,

and you should also like them on Facebook here

Hazy white surface of a sand dune splitting open, showering a group of six in dust that coruscates scarlet shades, colonizing a family of wretched individuals without their rights being separated from their faces;

I read a book on the Comanche Empire because I miss a home I am not from, and when I stare out the window believing I am almost enough rain to become a cloud, your face stretches my sight.

Your chest heaving upward, your stomach expanding before your last aria in the Carthage Opera house where I believed we could be counterpoint.

I take the sheets off my bed every Sunday morning in France and peer out the window before the acrylic canvas pours leaves—emerald fading momentarily like a black lung, volumes of Encyclopedias piling uncontrollably, masts of ships broken by years at open sea—onto the streets.

For the first day in France I did not know about official Taxi stands, or the texture of reflective roads, and feminine skin that moves when a woman brushes her teeth and my perspective is that of a mirror she does not look at, but

all of the street corners in this country remind me of your handwriting with its puddling g’s and r’s that sew my legs into turntables spinning arbitrarily.

Wherever I walk a shadow—a spout of aeipathy runs rampant—rains like photographs overwhelmed by bokeh, and I petition all lampposts to never shadow me.

Dear Stranger,

I learned a lot from how you handled the man who sat next to you on the train. His eyes were frayed, and each time he spoke you could see dark teeth in the back of his mouth, like the eyes I drew in kindergarten without color; only with black pupils. He spit on you as he spoke, murmuring about his dog, about his mother, about his dying mother, about how he didn't have enough money for the $11.75 train to Pleasant Prairie and was it all right if he borrowed some? He could get your address and send you money when he had it on him, promise, promise, but no Stranger, you took out your wallet and passed him a twenty dollar bill right before the next stop, shook his hand, and walked out as he kept asking for your address and saying God bless you. 

God bless you Stranger,