Cosmik Wolfpack is a playground and laboratory for flash-formed poetry and nanofiction written by The Debtor, a white cisgender male and citizen of the United States.
If you have something to say to the author, send it to cosmikwolfpack at gmail dot com.
In the rock and roll graveyard, she learns the astronomy of insects. The great motorcycle sculpture, looming above the troubled population of this town, her birthplace, ignites its headlamp for the first time in a generation. Bandanas and fairy shawls drift to the ground, crystals of frost reaching up to catch them and pull them into the organic substrate.
A fifty year old bachelor will give you plenty of ideas for a singles weekend, and serving a healthy realization of those traditional flavors. Teenaged boys of his interesting and unique conspiracy will want to turn to tough guys, and deceive him with sometimes decadent brunch recipes. He defies them with a quick breakfast. Whether you are looking for a powerful photographer or not telling his wife what they were looking for, his pipe collection is your source for what they were looking for.
married to a dentist
graduated from the New Age
the first wedding, thus
took one of the ribs
the same word used of a potter
after divorcing she practiced
years of seclusion, being
his gratification or his flesh
the first use of anesthesia
The devil tried fiercely to run from government agents, but he's living under limited information. The Palm Reader is a world-famous boxer whose praise and worship accidentally reveals tortured bounty hunters. Now they're both taken to jail on national television and they'll either have to sabotage an implacable curse or, through a dream, die in the traps of the wizard!
I knew of a boogey man in my neighborhood, a crooked little frozen mouse-eyed gentleman if you believed the accounts and reenactments of the older boys in Judas Priest tees. Once, this subdivision was a farm, and once the dead tree just past the border was a good tree for climbing, but a boy fell. Slowly died, so slow he still had life in his eyes when the scavengers arrived.
One night I would visit dead tree and piously wait, and if the clouds were just right the boogey man would announce his real-life identity with a cracking shuffle in the shadows.
I would clutch the knife in my hand to defend myself and vanquish his hell from the cul-de-sac and when he came for me
I would bargain for reflex and observation but the knife is a comb
it's the one my older cousin put in my stocking last year
he's in the air force now
the boogey man's quick sharp feet dance all up and down my skin and he knows how to grab the moon
he brings the moon crashing down
on my head shattering like a fluorescent tube shatters
the shrapnel hits me
enters me there's no pain at all
a sort of fleeting rush
I'd chase it forever, my fumbling adulthood
There I'd meet it and fall into the fir tree in the median the neighbor family dresses up yearly in multi-colored strands of lights.