by Philip Tinkler
She sits dogeared at the pepper-yellowed edge of Blank Page Avenue, a punctuation mark in a pencil skirt. She turns me over a lower-cased curlicued kiss. Kittens wouldn't melt in her mouth. She misreads my mind, and says how nostalgia is in this year. I set my digital greenery back to 1845, where I walk over words, run on sentences, fiddle in fields, and feel my pockets clatter with the wisdom of Thoreau's teeth under deliberate skies. Any resemblance to the living dead is coincidentally pure.
Philip Tinkler was born in the bucolic north of England. He has been published in places such as the Mad Hatters' Review, Red Fez, Word Riot, The Dream People, and Six Sentences, with work forthcoming in Full of Crow. He lives in NYC with his words and woman. More of his ramblings can be found here.