Creative writer

Fiction

from What Shapes These Clouds

What Shapes These Clouds
in The Capra Review

If you follow the lungomare—the road that hugs the sea—from Ostia to Circeo, you will see abandoned factories, rundown beach resorts, and waterfront restaurants. In Sabaudia, there is one of these restaurants, made entirely of fallen trees. And the people inside, they built it with their bare hands years ago, when the pontine was still a swamp, before the fascists filled it in …

These Seas That Swell
in Ligeia Magazine

When you follow the lungomare—the road that hugs the sea—from Circeo to Gaeta, you will pass ancient ruins, hilltop temples, and waterfront restaurants. In Sperlonga, there is one of these restaurants, made entirely of mud and grass. And the people inside, they built it with their bare hands years ago, when estuaries emptied out into the sea, before eroding topsoil dried them up …

What Shapes These Birds
in Heavy Feather Review with artwork by Sean Riley

As you follow the lungomare—the road that hugs the sea—from Gaeta to Pozzuoli, you will see crater lakes, cliffside villages, and waterfront restaurants. In Baia, there is one of these restaurants, made entirely of sea-glass. And the people inside, they built it with their bare hands years ago, when the town was still a port, before it fell into the sea …

What Fills These Wells
in Open Doors Review

Follow the lungomare—the road that hugs the sea—from Napoli to Rome, and you’ll see two clusters of islands in the Tyrrhenian: the Phlegraean Islands in the Gulf of Naples and the Pontine Islands off the coast of Circeo. If you take a boat from the mainland to the latter, you will arrive in the Port of Ponza, where there is a restaurant made entirely of tin. And the people inside, they built it with their bare hands years ago, when the waters from the Atlantic flowed freely through the Strait of Gibraltar, before the nationalists built their dam …

from The Fruitcake Empire

The Well Witcher
at Queen Mob's Tea House

The woman and her son walked into the diner carrying two bags of beans and a bindle. The door swung open and startled the waitress, sitting behind the cash register reading a magazine. The cook looked up from his cutting board, knife in hand, and stared out into the empty cafe, the bell tied to the door hinge ringing …

The Wing Man
in Deer Bear Wolf Magazine

The man stood inside of the trailer frying chicken. He held a fry basket in one hand submerged in the hot oil and filled to the brim with plump, juicy wings. He was whistling quietly to himself, curling his tongue behind his teeth and pushing the air out between his lips, but you could not hear it, for the fan was on, and all that was heard inside of the trailer was the sound of chicken frying …

The Turkey Buzzards
in Entropy Magazine

Larry and Andy, a mortician and a taxidermist in a blackwater pond, swap fishing tales when the bitins no good. Perched up in their rusty tin boat all covered in moss, they cast out their lines or drop down to deep bottom til their rods bend, buckle and fold. When the fish aren’t hungry, they reel up til the swivel meets top eye and switch out the rig with fresh bait or a lure: crankbait, jitterbug, sluggo or spook. Red wiggler, nightcrawler, cricket or slug. If they still won’t bite, troll into a cove and cast out the net: shad, minnow, crappie or brim. Slip on a bullet and tie on a hook. Drop straight down, crank three times and wait. If nothin hits, reel up. Sink again …

The Goat Man
at Transgression

The Goat Man walked into the town with the reins in his hand, leading his flock. His steps were slow and staggered, his body swaying from side to side as he picked up his feet and placed one out in front of the other. The goats giddied along, their heads bobbing up and down, the bells around their neck jingling. The wagon, loaded down and piled high, rolled along the dirt road all rickety like, the rubber wheels squeaking loudly as they wobbled on their rusty iron shafts and turned on the loose gravel rocks beneath them …

yodels & field hollers
in The Fanzine

Larry fell off the turnip truck wound up in a drain ditch with a plastic grocery sack tied over his head in a top knot. Laid out in the weeds with the rubbish and the trash til the sky opened up and down came the cats and dogs. Washed that sack a potatoes down the roadbed with the bullfrogs perched up on his ribcage croakin. Coughed up a tadpole gnawin on a june bug singin out a tune like a fork in a hog pen …

Poetry

from Salt Flat Super Bloom

follow me into the squid sack
in LOTUS-EATER Magazine
Follow me into the squid
sack, where the sidewalk
bends but doesn’t break,
where the grass is always
green—or is it blue? …

sit with me beneath the alligator pines
in LOTUS-EATER Magazine

Sit with me beneath the alligator
pines, where we walk up scales
to debone the heron, then blow
hornets from our honeycombs
and bovine! …

swim with me through the moon muck
in LOTUS-EATER Magazine

Swim with me through the moon
muck, where green onions
hang from plantain limbs,
where baguettes bathe
in flower beds and moan …

from The Underbelly of the Feast

What Shapes This Wood
at Plataforma² for No Rush by Mark Redden

they came from the sea.
some crawled,
others swam.
others still stood on their hind legs,
staggering into the dunes …

from The Dust That Sings

The Mudskipper
as The Well Witcher
in Sleepingfish

follow the mudskipper down into the cemetery, where that green water meanders through pluff mud & reeds, where from a towering live oak with sprawling branches, a rubix cube spins in a clump of Spanish moss & an opossum rears back to say: WE ARE ALL HAMS OF THE MIASMIC SLAUGHTER …

The Sunfish
as The Well Witcher
in Sleepingfish

we was standin kneedeep in the riverbed shotgunnin forties when the boy waded out into the water shirtless to the sandbank, where freshwater clams washed up alongside bottle caps & deer hooves, where every stone unturned housed a crawdad or a condom, where low hanging limbs were bedazzled in rope & police tape, where bloated fish had been gutted by pairs of opossum paws, where once, as a child, i found a CB radio & a duffel bag fulla minnows buried under a pile a leaves …

The Hourglasses
in Heavy Feather Review

when i carried my fiddle down to the river of silver,
i paddled upstream through currents of molasses 
til i heard the bellows of a bandoneon 
fill up with the fog & the dew, 
then push out steam …

The Lowcountry Chef
in Heavy Feather Review

down on the banks of the Ocmulgee River,
we ride that coal train to the steps of the cemetery,
where the lowcountry chef soaks red beans in well water
& grinds down brown rice to flour, sayin,
i crack an egg open on the spring equinox,
slice off a piece of salami & squeak …

The Animal Garden
in Heavy Feather Review

follow the bagpipes into the animal garden,
where the poet sharpens his pencils
& scratches flea dog with a fire poker,
where the bass fiddle player stokes his flames 
with a horsehair bow,
where, in the salvage yard, 
the junkman turns over hubcaps for frogs & asks:
ya wanna frolic in the hedges? …

The Bloated Whale & The Barfly
in Heavy Feather Review

we was sittin along the bywater drinkin white wine spritzers,
when a dead whale washed up on the shore all bloated & swollen.
so we carried our glasses down to where the sand met the shore
& poked the mammal with a stick,
til water shot out of the blowhole into our faces,
& anchovies slid out of its mouth onto our feet,
& a stench rose up from the sand into our noses,
so that we had to cover our mouths with our hands
& step back from the carcass that laid out in front of us …

The Shrimpboat Captain
in Heavy Feather Review

on the island of if,
the shrimpboat captain 
dreams of geckos
climbing up cave walls,
catching them & setting them free …

The Sugar Eaters
in Heavy Feather Review

they was sittin round the fireplace sippin tea & eatin fruitcake on crushed velvet divans with bronze claw feet on oriental rugs, when the maid walked in with a silver tray weighed down with a heaping mound of sugar cubes …

from The Pollen Path

The Pollen Path
a chapbook from Radioactive Cloud

where the river runs,
walk with me down the pollen path,
like a record player needle, we fall into place.
to play a flute filled with cement,
or a cello without any fingers,
we’ll need to sit quietly along the banks,
and wait for these pages to turn themselves …

a gulp of swallows
in the tiny mag

i chew up
your lips
and swallow them.
they sprout
and take root
in my intestines.
the leaves
grow
in my lungs
and the stems
in my throat.
they flower
in my mouth,
and a swarm 
of honeybees …

On the days that Pozzi sings
in Dream Pop Journal

On the days that Pozzi sings,
A turntable spits.
Wisteria weeps on a wrought iron fence.
A milk cow moans.
Dogwood down on the riverbank buddin.
A cloud of pollen blows from
Pine to Pine …

THESE HERE LANDS
in Dream Pop Journal

THESE HERE LANDS,
THESE LANDS ARE
STRANGE LANDS.
so i wake up
spelling R-O-S-E-S.
i follow sweet lemons
rolling down sidewalk lanes …

Crawl into the cocoon & silk
in NOÖ Journal

crawl into the cocoon 
& silk.
how many days went by
before you started counting them?
the clock drips.
it spells C-H-I-M-E.
the airlock bubbles.
yeast slurp …

You live on a grid that's static
in NOÖ Journal

you live on a grid that's static.
that's a tough krill to swallow,
but we can fold our sheets.
sweet meat. 
black bread. 
fat back …

wanna see the devil come outta me?
from Deluge

the man with the answers –
rudder stop,
rudder stop,
backhoe …

Every meal a meditation,
from Deluge

Every meal a meditation
in a nutshell,
the pony express,
deliver me this:
Did you ear that?
To have distinctive
spatial creatures
swimmin up stream …

I am the pond skater
from Deluge

I am the pond skater
on the event horizon,
skipping stones
with Romulus & Remus
across the underbelly of the feast …

HONEYSPIGOT
from Deluge

HONEYSPIGOT,
I open up my flower and spit:
STICKY ICKY ICKY ICKY …

i been settin here a long time
in GLITTER MOB MAG

i been settin here a long time
stuck in this misshapen form,
speaking in tongues
through a mouth full a yodel …

just do what the fish head
in GLITTER MOB MAG

just do what the fish head,
& bucket.
sink your teeth into the peach,
& pit it out.
it's time for a corn shuckin.
CAN YA EEL IT? …

the morsel of the story is the end so
in GLITTER MOB MAG

the morsel of the story is the end so
LOOK BACK AT IT …

you can spell my tongue
in GLITTER MOB MAG

you can spell my tongue
by the way i roll it.
i don't know when
but i say WANNA COME? …

can the wave function as an electron
in GLITTER MOB MAG

can the wave function as an electron,
be divided and trapped in a helium bubble?
make it make it don't
spring forward
or fall back …

if a hammer hammers
in GLITTER MOB MAG

if a hammer hammers
in an abandoned building
& no one nails it –
we'll burn that bridge
once we get there …

MEASURE OUT YOUR WORDS IN STONES
in FIVE:2:ONE Magazine

MEASURE OUT YOUR WORDS IN STONES
AND PREPARE THEM FOR THROWING.
CARVE OUT A HOLE IN YOUR SKULL
AND EXORCISE YOUR DEMONS.
CRUMPLE UP YOUR MAP
AND SWALLOW YOUR COMPASS:
THE LODESTONE WILL DISSOLVE IN YOUR BELLY
AND PUT YOU ON THE PATH …

Follow the will o’ the wisps
in FIVE:2:ONE Magazine

Follow the will o’ the wisps
into the bog
where no man speaks,
but only signs …

Stop kicking that mackerel
in FIVE:2:ONE Magazine

Stop kicking that mackerel
and the hen that doesn’t lay,
Keep your ears to the ground:
There is no screen between
your self and the projection.

On the tram that runs from here to there
in FIVE:2:ONE Magazine

On the tram that runs from
here to there,
the pot bellied pig
turns tricks
on a slab of limestone …

how you gonna keep em down on the farm
in FIVE:2:ONE Magazine

How you gonna keep em
down on the farm
after they’ve seen
Palm frond
Palm frond
Palm frond …

i may not have a hand right now
in FIVE:2:ONE Magazine

i may not have a hand right now,
but i wasn’t born this way,
i stick my head out in the rain
til it softens up,
whittle down the crust
and carve out the filling …

When shit hits the fan
in FIVE:2:ONE Magazine

When shit hits the fan,
time folds over on itself
like tennis shoes.
I’m a growin boy.
Know what I mean,
Butterbean? …

I’m as happy as a clam
in Entropy Magazine

I’m as happy as a clam
in a gulf of beer,
Fit as a whistle
in the pneumatic tube,
I’m just a droppin these breadcrumbs
while milkin these utters …

i can't jiggity jog no more
in Entropy Magazine

i can’t jiggity jog no more,
i just pokey,
i putt putt one foot
in front of my brother
and watch my legs
sink down into the pluff mud,
then holler out:
BEAN SHOOTS,
OKRA PODS,
SNAP PEAS
WITH A SODA ON THE SIDE …

You cast a wide net
in MUSE /a

you cast a wide net,
but i've got bigger fish to fry
in the sensory deprivation tank.
in a game of cat and mouse,
i can't see the cat for the fleas…

In a landscape of ether and burnt toast
in MUSE /a

in a landscape of ether and burnt toast,
watch me 8-bit with my mother of millions.
We can swamp genders with the 
ALL MIGHTY AMERICAN HOLLER,
ride in on our capybaras with the chicken of the sea,
carve out coconuts and shave em dry …

do you and the honey will bun
in LOTUS-EATER

do you
& the honey will bun.
so i dough ball …

all formatting will be lost
in LOTUS-EATER

sometimes, 
it is possible to see rings
as they really worm,
when every response
is a question of gender …

Interviews & features

Small Press Feature: OOMPH! Press
an interview with Entropy Magazine

As a front porch East Atlanta dream-seed sprouted in a Buenos Aires patio bathtub with cutting planted in warm Mediterranean soil and telegraph wire connecting Argentinean stalk to Roman reed—this is how OOMPH! began and how we operate today …

Feasting on Words
an interview with John Cabot University

I came to John Cabot University by way of poetry — I was swept up in a parade on Carnevale and invited to a reading in Trastevere, which was only a few steps from the university’s doors …

Under the Pines: Pigneto Poetry Project
a podcast feature from Blu T Studio

Welcome to the Pigneto Poetry Project, where we will sit under the pines and listen carefully for the poem that awaits us …

A Conversation with OOMPH! Press
an interview with Jacket2

I want OOMPH! to usher in as much non-English-language poetry into the English-language world as possible, in an effort to expand our understanding of poetry, language and culture. Eventually, I'd like for OOMPH! to function as a platform for international poets, translators, publishers and readers to engage in an ongoing exchange across borders. I want to shatter my concept of the "American" poem and encourage our audience to do the same …

Featured Reader
for Suddenly Every Wednesday, Notre Dame’s Fine Arts Radio Station

Poetry in Translation

as editor with OOMPH! Press

Resurrection of Wildflowers
written by Mohammed Khaïr-Eddine, trans. by Jake Syersak

Contemporary Works (Vol. 3): A Multilingual Anthology
an international collection of poetry, short prose, art, and work in translation

Melismas
written by Marlon Hacla, trans. by Kristine Ong Muslim, illustrated by Tilde Acuña

First Breaths
written by Mohammed Khaïr-Eddine, trans. by Jake Syersak

From Embracing the Sparrow-Wall
wrttien by Friederike Mayröcker, trans. by Jonathan Larson

Words
by Helena Österlund, trans. by Paul Cunningham

Expendables
written by Emma Villazón, trans. by Thomas Rothe

Contemporary Works in Translation: A Multilingual Anthology (Vol. II)
an international collection of poetry and short prose in translation

Contemporary Works in Translation: A Multilingual Anthology (Vol. I)
an international collection of poetry and short prose in translation

Language is Alive: A Collection of Poetry in Translation
featuring work from contemporary Spanish language authors, in collaboration with Emory University

The OOMPH! Zine
featuring work from female authors for The Atlanta Zine Fest

POÉTICA TRANSNACIONAL: Buenos Aires ↔ Atlanta
featuring work in translation for The Letters Festival

Nonfiction

Kerouac's Dharma Bums (1958) & DeLillo's Americana (1971): An Investigation of the Influences of Media, Spatiality, & Buddhism on Selfhood in Mid-twentieth-century American Culture & Consciousness
thesis, Department of English, Georgia State University

Author bio

Alex Gregor is a writer and editor from the United States living in Barcelona and Rome.