I recently had a poem published in The White Shoe Irregular, a publication I help out with from time to time. The poem was written almost accidentally one day while testing some of their technical features, and would have languished in obscurity had it not been well-appraised by the site's editor. You might enjoy reading it, but your satisfaction is not guaranteed.
Also, if you read the Yard Sales piece I wrote last week, and got the feeling that it was incomplete, you're right, I'm sorry. Writing about everything after the first yard sale just didn't seem to flow, so I left it out, hoping to polish it later, but after a while I realized that I really might not be the next Hemmingway, or the person after him, or even the person after the next person after James Joyce, and so I just put out my thoughts, in all their all-the-attraction-of-the-quadratic-formula glory. Again, your satisfaction is not guaranteed. Void in Nevada.
In other news, you may be interested in the meaning of the word redux.