where is the dog dead?how is the road bent?how did I get here? where’s my bike?that’s the...
Louis Bourgeois
The wooden sheep are in the yard.The black oaks with their gnarlinglimbs begin to appear.Nuns gaze into...
written by Louis E. Bourgeois In a room of textured sheet-rocked wallsHe had screamed at her from...
At first, someone told me he was killed because a car of Klansmen ran him off the...
This interview was published in The Local Voice #68 ‒ November 26, 2008. Please click here to...