He owned a blue Ford when I was a boy. He lashed deer antlers to the grill with wire and did carpentry for money. He kept box wine in the basement for the end of the day. I miss him when I listen to T...

Triples

Odds are they won’t read this. Everyone won’t read this. I write a poem about how there is nothing wrong with me. Everyone won’t read that either. I write a poem about how nothing is wrong and abou…

He owned a blue Ford when I was a boy. He lashed deer antlers to the grill with wire and did carpentry for money. He kept box wine in the basement for the end of the day. I miss him when I listen to T...

Mom crashed her car on a winding road in the high hills above the black bay. She died at dusk. The ruptured fuel tank and a spark from the impact of the car against the hillside created an explosion t...

Joel Tomfohr is a writer living in the Bay Area. He is the author of the chapbook, A Blue Hour ​(Bottlecap Press).

by Joel Tomfohr On the Eve of My Hospitalization Here is a short list of the dead: uncle by hanging in a hospital room, G’s suicide by gunshot to the head under the pink Sandía Mountains. My own fathe...

One time I wrote a poem about the Netherlands. It’s all about how I took the train from Amsterdam to the sea. I wrote about the green fields and the men in those fields walking their dogs. I wrote abo...

"Sandía is Spanish for Watermelon" by Joel Tomfohr

Sending you a prayer all the way from a memory of lovers on a beach in the middle of the Pacific waiting for the sun to fall, waiting for sea levels to rise. Th