All in Dana Jerman

Tomorrow Will Be Late

She kept running. Wind whipped at our hair and the frenzy in the silhouette was beautiful. I had never been out this far before. Hard to believe home was tucked into one of those cobalt corners of stylized steel that loomed like a frozen storm at the horizon. And so too when I turned again there another storm right in front of me.

Love Curse — Part I

She remembered it was a full moon right before she got in. As soon as they pulled out of the uptown apartment parking lot, all packed in and heading out to a dark graveyard in rural nowhere, she wanted out of the car. But she couldn’t say so. She was hanging out. This is what you did when you hung out and had idyll time. Suddenly, she wanted to be alone. She was hating herself for not turning around and walking back down the hill toward home. Her eyes grew big and dark. Her mouth pulled in with silence.

Rib Of Twilight

He wanted to know if I had anything that belonged to her, or what kind of things did she leave behind? And that gave me pause, because I’d never thought of her, or her case, that way before.

Then the question for me got caught between that place where you consider what you might leave behind and what is left to you, which is kind of all the same thing. Like a big merry-go-round of belongings all changing hands from life to life. 

First Season At The Unicorn Ranch

The pails of lemongrass milk we yoke out to slake them will be the same to pick up their poo: pink for girls, blue for boys. Noisome as a teenage pageant winner’s bedroom, it reeks of very horny flowers with a pollen fetish. If left uncollected the deep pheromones attract an unsavory population... I'm not talking about the diamond lice that we inspected their horns for each day...

Couplea Jerk Poets: In Conversation with Nic Souder

Chicago native Nic Souder is one of those people for me. A podcaster, a poet, poetry show host, visual artist and acquaintance (not at all in that order). One whom I admire because he manages to use his darker experiences and the everyday to lace everything he touches with a kind of mad hipster magic. 

He was gracious enough to let me steal him away after work for a few beers and a long chat, heavily abridged and presented here in celebration with National Poetry Month, about process and other creative curiosities…


Trash day. Last night's rain warped everything. Grass. Lawn chairs. I never know how it does.

Little pieces of tree and leaves are coming down out of the tops and spreading everywhere. Tiny dried up late-springtime bits covering the ground. Clods of them tearing by on this windy mid-morning when all else is quiet.

My sister saw the house with the eviction notice as we went through the old neighborhood. I remembered two kids, a dog, a trampoline, while we looked toward the empty open mailbox. Rain soaked tongue of its door lolling like an unwanted dog. If a house could be a loveless dog preparing to die.

Everything is wet.

Callout THIS Culture: Femme Fatales, Don't Unite.

If we are ever to get out from under this “fairer sex/nurturer” stereotype, desperate measures are perhaps required. I see you marchin’ so I know you know how to get out into the streets.

Act now while the initial investment can pay in dividends. Concealed carry isn’t just for bros anymore. This means you too, Mom.