In poetry on 08/27/2014 at 16:34
We’ve gone through the looking glass
You only catch up on time
Red wax on white cupboards,
silverfish in the sink,
is this how you imagined living?
They hand out anti–s like it’s nothing.
Change the sheets,
the memory’s overpowering.
Set out traps,
maybe we’ll catch something.
drunk as a poet on payday
left a candle burning
in the other room.
Means nothing to you.
In poetry, Uncategorized on 07/18/2014 at 17:29
Your body is a time machine
that works at
The music under the floor
through holes in my feet.
I can feel my heartbeat everywhere.
Promise me your coming out for real.
I can’t keep talking in circles
things that I feel.
I never thought I needed attention.
I never wanted a friend.
But really, man,
I’m dying without you
I mean, seriously,
What’s the diagnoses?
Is it possible to deteriorate
from an acute case
Somebody evict these thoughts from my body,
put them in a jar
that I’ll drink when I’m happy.
Stress is a killer.
I wouldn’t say silent.
Most often aggressive.
Maybe I’ve just been sitting down way too long.
In poetry, romance, writing on 04/01/2013 at 17:44
My poem “Winding Down the Month of June” was published on Word Wizard. Click the link to check it out or read the poem here:
WINDING DOWN THE MONTH OF JUNE
Moonlight and strewn asunder
under watchful gaze of
Under-dressed and obvious.
Come to me. Crawl if you have to.
I can see your face by light of the moon
under the window
where fireflies are passing.
So delicately placed
only sober now.
Rolling over and over
beneath shields of sheets
and fleeting confessions.
“Will you remember?”
My ghost stands on the porch
and watches you leave forever
I cannot keep myself together.
The summer will kill me.
The summer will leave me with nothing.
I’m so glad that I found you.
In American Radio, poetry, writing on 03/28/2013 at 14:15
America (the poem)
You’re feeling lonely
as you’re approaching,
will turn into faces
but your friends all have places
in states and
streets you never thought you’d see.
“Is Nat home?”
“He’s moved to New York City.”
In poetry, writing on 02/27/2013 at 12:46
This music box you gave to me,
the prettiest one I’ve ever seen,
a song to move the birds
from a city
that overlooks the sea. She sang
“Remember when we were married?
Speak of it like dead and buried,”
while I spill revenge on a yellow dress…I swore it an accident.
I pledge my love to you,
I’ll shine like gold when you feel blue.
On a night like this it’s hard
not to howl
at the moon.
In Game of Thrones, poetry, writing on 11/05/2012 at 21:19
Working on a book of poetry, unfortunately. Sample, about Ice&Fire:
Dany Wants Her Dragons Back
When I crossed the Narrow Sea
the septon said a prayer for me.
I just wondered if you’d wait
but you said nothing of it:
“You’re just a boy of ten-and-eight
stealing flowers.” Well, that’s great.
So unloved, I’ll take the black—
you blow the horn that brings me back.
You’re like fire, you’re like ice;
let me take you out to lunch.
Lannister red, the way you blush…
you are the other continent.
The wolves are showing us their stuff,
the dance has made you upset.
These are the knights of summer—
you thought the wolves would be your friends?
You are the other continent.
In fiction, poetry, writing on 10/16/2012 at 18:53
A few weeks ago I rearranged my room, including moving my bookshelf a few feet to the left. My ceiling high bookshelf containing an elephant’s weight in books. Quite the undertaking.
I had this grand idea that I would replace all the books by how much I liked them; “top shelf” books down to books I have but hate. Then I wondered a beautiful, color-coordinated arrangement would be better. My OCD kicked in and the books had to also work by size as well. A month later and I still switch a book’s place at least once a day.
But the source of most contention involves which books to display, cover facing out, leading me to my question how do you arrange your bookshelf?
Read the rest of this entry »
In fiction, gay/lesbian, poetry, writing on 10/16/2012 at 00:17
This is a draft of a horror/magical realist story I wrote, inspired by Julio Cortazar’s “Beastiary.”
“Magicicada” tells the story of Riley, her cousin Maggie, and their bizarre return to Perth, where she spent summers as a child. She finds her grandmother’s ranch a changed place, her cousin Eric a mysterious man and the return of a legendary brood of insect looming over the town.
I’ve sent it out, so I can only keep it up for a few days. Enjoy it during the Halloween season.
In the dark the children squealed, delighted by the roiling earth between their toes, those moist, glistening grubs. “Bring the light over here! The light over here!”
“Magicicada,” the elders uttered from rockers on the porch, singing the song, tzitzika, tzitzika, tzitzika. “They get bigger every cycle,” one speculated. “Big? These? Wait for the brood to rise.”
From the porch the children were evidenced only by shrill voices and the long arms of flashlights, extensions of their always pointing fingers, racing around the prairie…one stood apart, a girl in a dress that was glowing, it seems, the loveliest amber. She stood by the swing set under pale garlands of the old willow, examining the husks still holding to the tree, ghost shells, not living or dead…she might turn one to dust with a finger—she had magic like that—but the wind had not dislodged them, nor had bat or bird or either of the girls’ deranged cousins. They’d fall on their own, she knew, or else the willow tree would be a jaundiced mountain of shells from all the broods before, ten thousand summers old. They’d fall.
She shrieked, excitement keying up her throat, and rejoined the race, not willing to miss another second. Read the rest of this entry »
In American Radio, fiction, poetry, writing on 09/04/2012 at 22:05
I heard yesterday that a poem of mine will be published in an anthology released by Steady Moon Press. In celebration I will share this piece of semi-flash fiction/semi-landscape description called “The Narrow Sea.”
“The Narrow Sea”
Chapin Beach resembled the end of the world—so said Matt Gooding.
The sun-baked beach slanted steeply for a few yards before white sanded molted to a field of barnacle encrusted rocks. Hardly a beach at all. To soldier on seemed foolish, especially barefoot, but a keen eye could trace the flexed arm of sand stretching through the shallows, wound between vast piles of rock, plunging into a tide pool and crawling out the other side like the first trilobite born with legs.
If you persisted along this haphazard path the rocks and crushed molluscs sunk beneath the sand and you could look in any direction but back and see only ocean—it surrounded you, lurking in clean pools, threatening to swallow the sandbars at the slightest suggestion from the moon.
Further out still—where the drowned armor of horseshoe crabs roved like zombies on gentle streams and seabirds congregated around banks of driftwood, where the surf amassed in white wreaths along the shore (a mile from the beach now) and where, above in space, no smart phone satellites hovered—Aleks and Matt pressed their foreheads together and whispered tactics, slapped each other meaningfully on shoulders burned red, then came apart. Read the rest of this entry »
In poetry, writing on 09/03/2012 at 15:04
Poems and songs spill out of me. I never intend to write them. This one is from Friday night.
Envelope and Umbrellas
you talk about fairy godmothers
and discount dresses.
I know a tale as old as time or two
I don’t think everything’s a joke
now you’re rethinking everything
on the couch
gets under your skin:
you say envelopes
but say it like ‘ENvelopes’
so I say ‘envELOPEs’
and you try to leave,
you’re rethinking everything
(but now) we’re laughing,
we’re going to sleep.