Wednesday, February 28, 2018

Previously Published on Haiku for Lovers (Button Tapper Press) . . .

The perfect puzzle.
All of my pieces match yours.
We are one embrace.


Previously Published on The Burlesque Press Variety Show . . .

Waiting Room Rant

Yes, you may change the channel
on the community television. (Thank you
so much for not asking).  But it is not okay
for you to turn the volume to ear-bleeding decibels
in hopes of distracting from your daughter
using the chair between us as a trampoline
and screaming her abc’s as loud as her 6-year-old lungs
will let her.  I get it, you’re sick,
exhausted, and wishing (probably not for the first time)
you were not a single mother or maybe just not
a mother (the single part being incidental to you), longing
for the days when you could just die in bed in peace.
We second that dream, by the way, as you engross
yourself in the latest talk show bimbo’s babble
about who’s banging who in Hollywood this week
instead of reprimanding your child who has
now decided to graduate her self-
made Olympic trials from trampoline to hurdles.  My legs
and those of the three other women in the room serve
as the hurdles in question.  Only to extricate
yourself long enough to make a snide comment
about your daughter falling on her face
after tripping over “someone who should take more care
where they place their legs.”  As if
we can just detach them and move them off to the side
for convenience.  You go back
to your semi-conscious state as the receptionist calls
my name, completely unaware of how close
you came to pushing the wrong person’s button.  I debate
on telling you about the ponderings posed in my head
after reading the article in the magazine I just put
down that reminded me all state prison inmates get free
healthcare.  I smile, again, at the thought
as I disappear behind a one-way locked door.


Tuesday, February 20, 2018

Previously Published on The Broken City . . .

If De-Elevator Tries to Break You Down

Plug in2 the electric word:  Life.  It means forever,
and that’s a mighty long time to be someone
else’s shell/shadow/strung-out puppet.  Mister,
I have my own hand to shove up some anonymous . . . ask
me where I’m going and I’ll show you a place you’ll never see.
I am a diamond-studded time machine.  Going down? 
Too bad, I’m flying with the purple banana and have no desire
to learn how to drive a truck.  That’s why they call me Dr.
Everything’ll Be Alright.  My medicine is in the wind
and the wine.  It tastes like water if you push B for basement,
but lands you in the back seat of a little red corvette, going up
at a speed that does not know sound is supposed to have a barrier.

*Inspired by “Let’s Go Crazy” by Prince,  Purple Rain, 1984.


Previously Published on Boy Slut . . .

Tears for Her

I found you tying your self in-
to burgundy knots of sheets
and pain.  Turning/burning/churning.
I watched the darkness breathe
for you.  Could not
the stammering stop the drowning?
Bubbles of blame blew through you.
([Wrongly] Labeled as misconstrued
communications.)  Failing
is more than an option now.  Though
broken is the pro-offered term.
Incorrect!  Assumptions
are so much harsher than the actual
face of the mirror's dark.

Previously Published on Boy Slut . . .


Green.  To orange.  Then blue.
Your eye magic charms glow.  Through me
you are alive.  Ageless and undefined,
you hang wingless in my mind.  My(?) angel.
You cannot be.  My world
is dying inside of me.  And mine
is not strong enough to be.  Without you,
this time-strangled heart cannot hold [on].
Yet another year's beating falls
outside of comprehension.  Listen
to the air.  It is heavier now.  Slowing
like [my] pulse.  Points
pounding nowhere through collapsing
veins.  Your touch pulls a gasp.  I grasp
at the silver threads trailing your fingers.
But still I cannot breathe when you lean
in and kiss.  Me?

Previously Published on Boy Slut . . .


ly trying to hang on.  To anything whole
in this field of fragmented, song-
like noises echo as whispers
on a pillow.  I fall through their depths.
Hoping their darker tonations will teach
me.  Peace is the desert
I long to drown in.  Spiteful.  Spirited.
Its blanding shades offer an oasis.
A fading, wavering, welcoming image.
Of [your] arms.  Shaped like home.

Previously Published on The Bond Street Review . . .

At Midnight

the lawn chair, in silhouette of my half-
sleep, resembled a deer for just a blink
as I rounded the corner of the house,
entered the yard.  I froze
in unintentional mimicry, caught
by my own vision.  Nerves settling
into the clarifying breeze, I continued
on, chuckling at my own confusion when
two fawn approached, wandered over,
sniffed the four-legged shadow . . .

Previously Published on Bohemia . . .

Because Mars

is electric, red, and resistant to changes
imposed by the time-space continuum,
it was the perfect place to build the alien
discothèque.   Planetary minions
flocked to its garish lightshow. 12-eyed Saturians
decked out in full John-Travolta-Saturday-Night-
Fever regalia glow like ghosts under the strobing
black-lit mirror ball.  The Uranian revival
of Donna Summer’s greatest hits streamed
through the Milky Way like a midnight meteor
shower.  There was a hesitant fear of cross-
contamination caused by so many sequins, but
precaution was thrown to the vacuum, when
the local black hole closed out of respect
for the blue-man group’s light-year tribute
to Abba.

Previously Published on Bohemia . . .

Beep Beep

squeals this feathered fury
of a dream as it leaves me
in the dust  of my latest
failure.  I am
emaciated, starving in this desert
where I should be king.  Animal
instincts flame inside
inadequate body.  I stare down
the path before me:  prey’s
elicited departure runway,
already erased by wind and tumble-
weed.  Lightbulb pops into frame
above my head.  I know
hopeless, even before it lands,
an ACME anvil, smashing me flat.

Flash Fiction Previously Published on Bohemia . . .

A Tisket, A Tasket

The green and yellow picnic basket stared at me from its perch on the hallway table.  I could hear it mocking me:  He was using you, you fool!  I ignored the taunt as I continued rummaging through the closet.

* * * * *

It started with a letter to my love.  I had written it carefully, an enticing invitation to embark on a scavenger hunt that would end at a secluded little spot in the forest where I planned to be waiting, romantic picnic all arranged.  I couldn’t think of a better way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

I left the letter on his doorstep, rang the bell.  I hid in the bushes to watch his reaction.  He smiled as he opened it.  I had to cover my mouth to suppress a school-girl giggle.  He pulled out his phone and dialed, “Darling!  I got your note.  Can’t wait to see what’s waiting for me at the end.”  With that, he closed the receiver, went back inside.

I hurried back to my car to check my messages.  My cell phone screen glared back at me:  No missed calls?  No missed calls!  That wasn’t possible.  I heard him make the call.  That’s when reality smacked me right across the face.  I hadn’t signed the letter.  It never occurred to me he would think it was from someone else.  There shouldn’t have been a someone else.  I started the car and headed for the finale’s destination. 

* * * * *

I actually shouted a triumphant “Aha!” as I emerged from the closet, shovel in hand.  I turned to the green and yellow picnic basket, noticed the bottom right corner was darkening, threatening to drip on the rug.  “Good thing I found this in time.”  It was my turn to mock the childish carrier.  “DNA on my carpet wouldn’t be very prudent now would it?”

I linked my arm through the handles as I headed for the door.  Practically skipping into the back woods, I couldn’t stop myself from singing a new version of my favorite childhood rhyme:

A tisket, a tasket,
a green and yellow basket.
I wrote a letter to my love
who pissed me off, I lost it.

I lost it, I lost it,
and now that little basket
is filled with pieces of my love
and buried like a casket!

Previously Published on The Blue Hour . . .

Sensing Sunflowers

Golden-seed children dance on
exaggerated limbs.  Field filled
with followers echoing movements
in wave of would-be smiles.  My mind
wanders with them across the wind.

I.  Seeing Sunflowers

Dark textured mouths, opened in
silent choral prayer and purse
of eminent awe.  These natural blonde
disciples trace path of fire-
god across the sky.  Bizarre,
clockwork ritual testing strength
of stem against Autumn’s breath.

II.  Hearing Sunflowers

Petals chitter, responsive
shudder against sunset, exhale in fabled
attempt to shake souls back
inside.  They echo, gilded
ghosts rattling invisible chains, inviting
footfall.  I answer automatically,
impulsively running, crashing
into their waiting embrace.

III.  Smelling Sunflowers

Subtle hint of seasonal change closes
around me.  Militant rows roar:  We are
different.  No need for overwhelming,
sickly blossomed bursts, ripe
enough to bottle.  Dime-share of diminutive
nut, dash of pollen, the only traces
the air dares to brush free.

IV.  Touching Sunflowers

Strange stalks confuse, tactility . . . unlabelable.  Faux-
fragile façade, difficult to break, pull. Cut
is required to topple these feather-headed harlots.
Harvest heralders, graceful
                                            ly falling, perfected
pictures of death’s bow.

V.  Tasting Sunflowers

Beheaded beads boil, toss in roasting
pan.  Pre-destined for packaging.
Snack for squirrels and dugout bench
warmers.  Split-shell spit, more
work than result, worth every bite
of calm repetitious swallow.

Friday, February 16, 2018

Previously Published on Blue Collar Review . . .

You’ve Got Mail

I remember the first time my computer chimed
those three little words.  It was intoxicating,
a new electronic drug.  I would race to the office,
excited to dive in, read, respond. 
This amazing telecommunications development
drastically cut down on telephone tie-up,
eliminated the need for counterproductive
five-hour meetings.  Unfortunately, I was not
the only addict.  Soon bosses and co-workers felt
the need to spam me their every half-formed thought,
and what used to be a friendly intonation
became a monotonous echo of exasperation.  The next
generation replaced vocabulary with notification tones,
gave us a choice of sounds to tell us our inbox was drowning
as progress became synonymous with paperless.  Attachments
poured in, piled up, mixed with spam that slipped
through filters, turned into nightmarish migraine.  I thought
it couldn’t get any worse, then the powers that be created
the phone app.  Now I hear that infuriating beep
on and off the clock.  Hell, I even hear it in my sleep.


Previously Published on Blog from the Bog . . .

There was a Gnat

in my toilet.  Just flying around
inside the bowl.  I tried to shoo it out.
Ignored, I flushed nothing, hoping
it would spook.  Finally, I could hold it
no longer, dropped my pants, prayed
it would not fly up my butt, then laughed
at the thought of the poor creatures surprise
when it gets hit with the first drops
of an unexpected golden shower.

Previously Published on Blog from the Bog . . .

Kneeling Before the Porcelain Throne

Corrosive waves
attack me from inside.
I am waiting for eruptive

Previously Published on Blog from the Bog . . .

I Am Toilet

paper, random roll of almost attached pieces,
thin as air.  Crumpled in fist, I become barely passable
tool to clean up, dislodge random shit.  I am raw,
irritating, a pain in the ass.  I am disposable,
dropped and forgotten with every flush.

Previously Published on BlazeVox Online Journal . . .

The Elastic Gait of a Memory

The rain is like a screw,
twisting its sound to undertake the moon.
It settles, a kinder tension – ash-like
in its accrual.  It abstracts the steps
of pressure.  Every
a re-active response.  Trigger
is the echo of elemental automation:  Midnight’s cloud

A new filter formulates . . .

adjusts/converts/segments nothing
more than the dusty expression
of a star’s silent stare.


Previously Published on BlazeVox Online Journal . . .


Skydiving naked in a mind field
ing moonbeams like bullets (matrix
style – all slow-motion black
patent sexy), I dial escape.  Screaming
winds respond with a synthesized version
of my own voice that could never be
described as an echo.  Thank god
for rip cords.  Way to overstate
the obvious.  I swallow
our mutual fear, continue
to free
into this quasi-dark
ness that doesn’t feel anything
like sleep.


Previously Published on BlazeVox Online Journal . . .

Esoterical Space

belies physics.
Gravity.  Comprehension
falters.  In a blink
minds divide.  The law
from the logic.  Sink
ing metaphysical teeth
into loopholes that cannot hold
anything. (But their weight
in water?)  Obsoletrical observations
about inside the idea
of institutionalism.  That's why
the bars are banded in
shades of 3 X 3 X 4.  The doors
are all left open.  It is
freedom.  That is the lie.


Previously Published on Bitterzoet Magazine . . .

The Shadow of a Window

is a cage, an impenetrable cell
my mind cannot escape.  The edges waver,
whisper like ghosts from corners of a hell
I can only imagine.  I tuck my legs
tighter beneath me, shrink within its frame.
It forces me smaller, smaller, smaller.
Soon I will be gone.


Previously Published on Bitterzoet Magazine . . .

I Am Dandelion

Unwanted weed, thriving against tended grains of green.
I resist every attempt at extraction.  Caustic sprays, repeated
attempts at diminishment, disintegration fail against a head
that chooses to live without ears.  I feed on frustration,
but tire quickly of repetitious scene.  I allow my hair to whiten,
mimic absence, before giving myself to whim of wind. 
I disperse, leaving nothing but random seed, a lone memory
that may or may not take root.


Previously Published on Big River Poetry Review . . .

I Am Two

halves of the same black
hole.  Tearing at my own skin,
the first dreams of being
a star, wishes for a radiant side
to project outward.  To breathe
in continuum, stretch myself
across a millennium of light years.

The other piece is cold,
reticent, prefers the somber
solace of absence, believes
emptiness is universal.
Echoing nothing is a talent
I have honed like a smile. 
Without teeth, I devour my own
tomorrow, grateful
the gift of darkness is eternal
and does not give a damn
how loud any clock ticks.


Previously Published on Bigger Stones . . .

Automatic Poetry Machine

[Insert random conversational text
here.  Please.]

No subject
is too monumental or arbitrary. 
No cohesion is required.  Tired
brain?  Empty head?  No worries,
just enter random words.  Press
send when finished, then wait.

I process all prompts promptly.  Shake
things up, turn them sideways.  Dance
them on their heads through mine.  Images
playing at wanting
to become concrete.

I regurgitate, recycle.  Shiny fresh
ideas you never knew
you already had.


Previously Published on Beat the Dust and Tales to Terrify. . .

When Night Shows its Fangs

A monstrous shadow, with the illusion of small, hard wings flapping at its shoulders
descended into my vision like a living nightmare.  I could not blink
as my eyelids were missing.  Evaporated was the word
echoing through this encapsulation.  I
was the jellified victim of my own
legacy.  Pluck one,
bleed two.  Thousands of imaginary
carrion companions parade before silence.
Cacophony gives way to ghostly emptiness.  This place
where memories wear me like a skinned skeleton.  I rattle externally,
dripping regret like coagulated flesh-cycles.  I am waiting for the sun to thaw me gone.

*first line is the ending line of the novel, Candlenight, by Phil Rickman

Thursday, February 15, 2018

Joint Chapbook (with April Salzano) Published on Barometric Pressures Author Series . . .

Flash Fiction Previously Published on Bare Fiction Magazine . . .

Counting Backwards to Truly Awake

I fall asleep in the hands of a clock that ticks backwards.  I find the counter motion comforting as I regress into dreams of the past (sometimes even mine).  I welcome the variation, it keeps me coming back, night after night, even though I am never tired. 

Tonight my eyes close on visions of a recognizable childhood.  Parents and pets have names I do not have to fabricate.  I let them pass through my fingers, soothing sensations of something almost tangible.  I giggle, pretending it tickles more than my fancy to walk past this psychological conveyor of ghostly images.  Laughter stops the flow.  I am twelve, dancing with my two best friends in a bedroom that was not mine.  We were dressed up in electric colors, holding spatulas as microphones.  We were miniature Madonnas, ready for our million-dollar contracts.  We did not understand what it meant to sing off key.

Hourly chime shattered the image, replaced it with another.  This one fell like a blanket.  Snow, piles of it lay in waiting for an overstuffed-suit and boots with eyes to come running, crashing through it.  Behind me a tiny puppy, all black fur and paws two times too big for its body mimicked my every move as best as he could.  All that could be seen of us was hat tassels and tail.  We were consumed by icy white.  Our laughter seemed frozen around me for more than a few moments, continued to linger even as invisible hands forced me further back, years elapsing with every footstep.

I stopped again, when something shiny caught my eye.  A tiny tiara, prize for petite perfection, smiled back from a home-made trophy case.  I was now five, and my mother dressed me like a lacy sailor.  I charmed three anonymous faces.  Judges.  Of what? I wondered, but continued to tell them a story about helping my father fix his car.  They laughed and made notes, later announced my name.  I had to stop playing to collect the rhinestone crown, never fully understanding what it was for.

Suddenly it was dawn, and I could follow myself no further.  I opened my eyes, reborn to reality.  Today I would breathe a little lighter knowing no matter how many times I abandon myself, all I have to do is close my eyes and wait for my own return.


Previously Published on Bare Back Magazine . . .

Peep Show

I am their by-the-minute-baby-angel-
kitten.  I purr appropriately
every time they slide filthy singles
through the slot.  They raise my curtain,
I raise their full-flag salute.  Exposed
and pressed against the glass, they pant
at the possibilities.  I pose,
slowly, revealing hints
of what they will never have, but dream
they can.  Eventually, I open
myself to their fantasies.  They cannot slip
their money in fast enough to keep me.  Still
open, I pause, wait for them to catch up.
They pay extra for me to watch them
finish.  I mimic their momentum,
if not their enthusiasm.  Pretend
the show was reversed, that my climax was
more than the collection of cash
spread beneath my feet.

( (warning -- adult content site)

Previously Published on The Autumn Sound Review . . .

Meadow’s Dance

Mellow shades of morning melt
into and over each other.  Grass-like arms
stretch to embrace folding yellow rays.  The sun
lands softly, kisses petals’ tips.  They erupt,
giggles of pink, shivering in the wind.

Flash Fiction Previously Published on Apocryph and Abstractions . . .

A Tale of Two:  Kamikaze Wings

I drove a flamingo to the perceived edge of the world to see if we would fall off.  We did not end.  Our journey continued past the red-buoyed warnings, my legs pedaling, wishing they were wings.  Air is so much easier to traverse than water, less natural resistance.  The sleek pink giant offered no assistance or caution, just willingly worked its wave through the waves. 

I grew tired after awhile, but the stoic expression of my voyage companion motivated me.  Unreasonable defiance was my stick.  I would find a way to wipe that Mona-Lisa-Know-It-All-Grin off its beak if I had to build a sandblaster.  I pedaled harder, my legs no longer registering feeling.  My muscles became liquid as the water that tried to force us back to a beginning that was no longer in sight.  Hours passed.  Then days, weeks.  Time lost all meaning as did trivial terminology like pain and progress. 

Suddenly we struck land.  An expanse of sand sideswiped us.  (Focus too had abandoned us eons ago).  I wanted to get out, give up on this mission of migration, but the bird was still flipping me its accusatory grin, and my legs no longer believed solid belonged beneath their feet.  Sitting there in the spotlight of another morning’s sun, I suddenly understood we had already survived one pre-destined mythical death.  Encouraged,  I turned my feathered vessel around, pointed collective minds toward the celestial body that burned. 

We took off at a different pace, intent on flight.  This time our journey would be about height, not distance.  Both of us were curious to see how high we could get before something started to melt.

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

Previously Published on Aphelion . . .

I Dream of Rings

of gold, blazing
atmospheric anomalies calling
me.  Saturn’s embrace,
waiting to welcome me to their fold.
There I dance, uninhibited
by the laws of physics, and therefore,
the physical necessities of life support.
I am my own
momentarily alien self, skimming
solar systems with a flip
of my hair . . . Flash forward
fifty light years.  I am queen
of a recently discovered star,
a purple-skinned princess
touched by a sun
on both shoulders, breathing
fire to keep the scales
of my settlement’s sentient beings warm.


Previously Published on Ann Arbor Review . . .


gumballs lived in a glass container
on the front counter of the little corner
store in the small Western Pennsylvanian
town I grew up in for years.  Don’t ask
me how I know there were 800, I just do.
I am as sure of that number as I am
of my name.

These gumballs were not for sale, not part
of some promotional contest.  They were
just sitting there for show, a useless colorful
display that plagued my childhood.  My still-
developing mind could not make sense of all
that waste, all those wonderful, unchewed
gumballs collecting dust.

I stared at them for years, from all angles
as I grew.  I waited for their great mystery
to be revealed.  But the store was sold, torn down,
replaced with a slick new 7-11.  Everyone rejoiced
at the improved convenience, the always (over) stocked

I resented the fancy neon sign and its clutter-less
counters.  They mocked me, along with the ghost
of that gumball-filled jar, its absence laughing
from my memory.


Previously Published on Ann Arbor Review . . .

With Alligators

waiting on every embankment, jaws
posed in carnivorous smile, all eyes and instincts
follow me as I wade into the water. 
White robes rebel, refuse to hold
their breath, choose instead to spread about
me, petals to my stem.  Rooted among waveless tide,
I bloom.  Stoic queen scenting sacrificial call.
Waiting for selection, acceptance, and the whisper
of my cold-blooded king breaking the surface
of this sound.


Previously Published on Annapurna Magazine . . .

With Killer

pickles hiding
behind every shadow, my heart
burns for a spear.  To slice
or not to slice?  Such a question
is too loaded for a single piece.  The buns
in front of me are average
at best, sedentary, stuck in stale postures
of enticement.  Open sesame!  I chant
in my mind.  Nothing
happens.  I toss a dash of salt over
my shoulder for luck before I move


Previously Published on Annapurna Magazine . . .

Seeing Naked

pizza in my box infuriates me,
especially when I know I ordered it
dressed in mushrooms and pepperoni.  Pieces
of various food groups strategically placed
to balance my meal.  Instead,
bland expanse of cheese stares back,
a boring plane of white.  My teeth are
hesitant to bite.


Previously Published on Amulet . . .

The Edges of Matter

I want to be
than this ghost of myself.
I want to wander
beyond your eyes.
I want to open doors and windows
in your brain.
I want to fee you
every version of sun.
Every shadow of rain.
You need to see the colors.
To be.
But I am blind.
So I need you
to believe.
In the life
of my fist.


Previously Published on Amulet . . .

Gypsy Soul

Her favorite boots
matched her skirt.
Or what was left of it.
After she parted
with scarf after scarf.
For fun.
And funds.
To buy the twin coins
standing guard
at her breast.


Previously Published on Amulet . . .

A Keepsake of Her Sorrow*

He believes she is perfect.
When she crumbles,
with his smile,
into a picture.
Of misery.
Small enough
for him to carry
in his pocket.
And palm at will
whenever he feels the need
to show her.
The space
of a heart
she’ll never earn.

*July 2013 Editor's Choice for Supreme Poet of the Month


Previously Published on Amulet . . .

With Abecedarian

anxiety, I curl fingers around pen, press
panic through point, pray
muse is moved or angered enough
to guide bloodless ink into colloquial gold.


Previously Published on Amulet . . .

The Road to Stiletto Road

is shadowed in x-rays, misaligned
spines, deteriorated knee joints.  All
disregarded as breast to butt lines press
forward.  Aggressively shoving, never
stumbling, drooling over the latest
Choo’s, Monolo’s, and Louboutin’s flashing
under raging spotlight, sign beckoning
in beautiful 4-lettered neon aria:  SALE!


Previously Published in Amulet . . .

Saw the Fly

Flying space spiders spawn.  Round webs
of cosmic time hang:  suspension in/is nowhere.
What a magical construct
catching forecasts, feathers, and fey – all the fantastical
elements needed to focus this fictionalized reality.

The third eye closes.

From this distance, it is the globe that spans;
not the perspective that spins.  I worry
my fingers into wishes  (as if either actually exist),
and fill my basket with remnants
of stars.  They burn me,
myself, and I [think themselves too] out
until everything glows gray with [dis/mis]use.

Listen as the secular seconds float off
in a final[ized?] vision of the fluctuating orders
of phoenixed ash.

Monday, February 12, 2018

Previously Published in Ekphrastia Gone Wild (Ain't Got No Press) . . .

I Am Rhinoceros

     Inspired by The Persistence of Memory, Salvador Dali, 1931 and Rhinoceros Dressed in
     Lace, Salvador Dali, 1956

in lace dress, shredded, blowing
(it was a bitch to get it
over my horns).  In desperately dull
desert winds, I wander and wonder
What is the point?  This menial existence
rains existential chaos, holds no cosmic
meaning, only occasional comedic value.
Droll backroom chitters, the fire that fuels
me, I thrust forward, onward
over/under/through ever-
elongating hands
                             dripping time,
an interesting shade of disharmony, to paint
my toes.

Previously Published in Our Day's Encounter . . .


I shove chairs in my mouth.
For your comfort
and my convenience.
My knees are not meant
to support us both.
Let me welcome you
in my own way.
My tongue
is made to conform
to your specific dimensions.
What’s the point?
It’s white darling.
and sharp.
And closing in on you.
Don’t look up.
They are too many.
And too deeply
by my hunger.
To be swayed
by your pitiful pleas.
At least they are tonight.


Previously Published in Our Day's Encounter . . .


I buried myself
up to my chin.
In the hollow flesh
of men
who were all-too-happy
to sacrifice
for cause.
Then I colored my hair
with their eyes.
And my lips,
well, I believe they speak
for themselves.
Still I lacked the heat
to hold your attention.
So I left you my scars.
But I never realized
they formed a map.
Too late.
I followed you instead.
Until I could not breathe.
For anything.
But the pulse
of your blood.


Previously Published in Our Day's Encounter . . .


I opened my eyes.
And I screamed.
I screamed so loud
I turned my skin
inside out.
Forcing the blood I had left
to the surface.
And once I was painted,
I was silent.
There was nothing else to say.
You could not ignore me any longer.
I was a spot.
A sore.
A scab.
You had to pick me.
You had to make me
your own.


Previously Published by Absinthe Anthology Project (Hyacinth Press) . . .



            Drip.  Drip.

Lonely aquatic tally taps
top of cube.  Sugar
                                silts through silver
slots.  Erupts (in seemingly slow
motion).  The louche begins, clouding
Peridotic hue.  Gemlike
                                       liquid densifies,
strengthens, a new body
                                         ready.  La fée verte
has grown wings, stands:  prepared
to fly
          along your tongue.


Previously Published in The 22 Magazine . . .

Portrait of a Woman as Her Purse

Red enameled alligator encases three
cloth sacks of unified survival.  Beneath zipper
#1 waits five nickels, bottle of glittered nail
polish, miniature journal, handful of pens, only
one still wearing cap.  Skip #2, it is stuck
shut and whatever is in there has been labeled
unnecessary and forgotten.  #3 never closes,
most-used, most-important, must remain
accessible, always.  Checkbook teeters
against tightly-capped Crazy
Glue, shades sunglasses from potential scuffs
from engraved silver cardholder, coupon folder, ring
of 37 keys, only 3 having known locks or ignitions
to turn.  Ringing requires perimeter check.  Pockets
bulge, aspirin and birth control semi-hidden
in tightly-snapped front pocket, portable
hard drive and note cards on Roman Architecture
threaten to spill out of left side pouch.  Right
must be the never-ending musical bleeping,
incessant blipping of latest high-tech, supposedly
miniaturized, iPhone, trying to pass itself
off as both computer and lifeline when it is really
more crutch and anvil.  Last stop, strap with photo
keyring dangling attachment.  Favorite snapshot
of herself smiling at the world, makes everyone wonder
who or what was making her laugh that hard.


What to Expect Here . . .

I've never blogged before, but I've been told all authors should have one, so I'm going to give it a go. . .

So, what you should expect to see here on my blog?  Well, for starters, I will be posting all of my previously published poems.  Why?  Well, a couple of reasons -- 1.  I'm updating my publication resume and since I'll be revisiting them all, I thought I'd share them with you.  2.  I write to be read, and the only way to get them read is to publish and re-publish them.  3.  They may just speak to someone out there, and if they do, drop me a comment.  and finally, 4.  Because I can (and let's be honest, what else am I going to do with them. LOL)

From time to time I'll also be posting calls for submissions from my small press -- Kind of a Hurricane Press.  And, I'm not going to lie, sometimes I might just babble on about writing or poetry or something I've recently read.  I do that.  Hopefully, you'll find it fun and interesting.  That's the goal at least!

Previously Published in Epigraph . . .

To Spin Or Not To Spin Static transporter taunts me infinitely across a room of mirrors, reminders of necessity.  Cold motivators of perpetu...