Comments Posted By Philip Whitley

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The window, through a slight waver of glass, framed an oriole quiet on its back, all sunlight on that February morning focused into one lemon yellow drop.

» Posted By Philip Whitley On 02.15.2013 @ 9:40 am


The child pressed the weapon’s muzzle against the naked skin of his father’s head, against the ink-black Celtic cross with its overlaid skull. The man never moved, never heard the awful crack that had kicked his son to the floor, the son a patchwork of hate stitched together over a short ten years of cruelty, as if the father had willed himself this terrifying legacy.

» Posted By Philip Whitley On 02.16.2013 @ 7:42 am


the earth is flat and round like a salad plate and green. we spin and spin without dressing longing for a taste of spring or dessert in the middle of winter or on a desert island in the middle of all that sargassum–is it edible?

» Posted By Philip Whitley On 02.14.2013 @ 9:32 am

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