Paul Aaron Domenick

Joined March 2026

23 stories

Bio

“I am mine. Before I am ever anyone else’s.” --Nayyirah Waheed

“Publication is the auction of the mind of man.” --Emily Dickinson

“Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself.” --Franz Kafka

Stories (23)

Filter by community

Sort by (Optional)

The Dark Night, The Chase
Like Saint John of the Cross, I chased him through the Burrough That mahogany night, All the prayers heard from open windows
By Paul Aaron Domenickabout 18 hours ago in Poets
The Wafer on My Tongue
Have you ever heard a true story-- the kind that bat-hovers over yard graves, circling the plastic roses that outlast everything real?
By Paul Aaron Domenicka day ago in Poets
Dear Tom Sawyer,
Dear Tom, How come you ain't found me yet? You know darn well I'm somewhere nobody ought to look. Or are you still recoverin from that gunshot? I reckon you think that makes us even but it don't. I still ain't forgived you for that fool rescue of yours on account of I got nothin out of it but trouble and aggravation. Least you could do is come find me seein as you owe me considerable.
By Paul Aaron Domenick2 days ago in Fiction
The Duck that Passed Before Me
I went outside today to smoke and watch the ducks. Seven feet away from me, one sat isolated and dry in the brush, a gang of flies swirling around her.
By Paul Aaron Domenick3 days ago in Poets
Our Queer Kids
Between locker-slammed prophecies and cafeteria psalms, they provide combinations to ultraviolet funhouses — Quantum superpositions of mascara and masks,
By Paul Aaron Domenick5 days ago in Poets
The Making of a Snow Globe
When I was five I put a quarter into a toy machine. A toy soldier was dispensed in a plastic dome — perfect for making
By Paul Aaron Domenick6 days ago in Poets
Oh, Isabel, Why So Thin and Pale?
Oh, Isabel, so thin and pale-- charm wasted on the breeze that carries with it the poem’s dark-hued words that prod the
By Paul Aaron Domenick6 days ago in Poets
The Jewel Thief
Hey, y'all prepare yourself or the rubberband man, because I’m bound to lose a little control in envisaging a woman who, like a pomegranate, has tough skin and juicy seeds.
By Paul Aaron Domenick8 days ago in Poets
What She Couldn't Say
I’m here alone with her in this room. I can hear her breath being monitored. So much hushing for a simple machine. She would like it that way: Hushed and breathing deep.
By Paul Aaron Domenick8 days ago in Fiction
A Wrist Against a Frozen Pole
Is it being over the line to want a sufficient taste of the other side of funhouse mirrors where survival was possible in plans for blank posterity,
By Paul Aaron Domenick9 days ago in Poets
Father, Hello
Father, hello. But I was remiss to understand-- for decades after your surmise-- A gay son? What kind of man are you?
By Paul Aaron Domenick9 days ago in Poets
Screwing Him with the Word
In the beginning, his name was Nameless. In the end, his name was Adam. All that was left was the void of the Middle. So, fruit me your rib, seed inside my slits, jaw my rattling body.
By Paul Aaron Domenick9 days ago in Poets

Paul Aaron Domenick

Bio

Stories .css-1svwz57-Text{display:inline-block;color:var(--text-default-mute);}(23)

Filter by community

The Dark Night, The Chase

The Wafer on My Tongue

Dear Tom Sawyer,

The Duck that Passed Before Me

Our Queer Kids

The Making of a Snow Globe

Oh, Isabel, Why So Thin and Pale?

The Jewel Thief

What She Couldn't Say

A Wrist Against a Frozen Pole

Father, Hello

Screwing Him with the Word

Stories (23)