-When can I expect this-and-that to be done? -Ask me once more and I SWEAR I’ll set my hair on fire. (poetry in the workplace)
This Is It
This is it—the end. Any more would render it worthless, impractical and overdone, lazy and a dalliance with disaster. This is it—no more two-steps on the high wire or low blows to the gut, the dazzling has been dazzled out. This is it—finished even night to morning, winter to spring, ring the bell and lights out in the theater. The ticket master counts his profits. This is...
Tricks and Daisies
Double down on black- eyed. Susan’s heart is up for grabs and bless it like a lone trumpet and an upright piano, she’ll need a second lesson.
What's inside? Click and find out! →
Her & Him, and Which Is Worse?
Sometimes I dream dreams. This is what he said to the belle of the hour, dressed as a bohemian, a rather shabby entrance, but nonetheless willing to dance for a few dollars and certainly not as crass as a lawyer with a pin-striped suit and a taste for hard liquor.
…bastards. Many hands make light work and this time I’ll peel the rind— citrus spray in a couple cup-fulls of sunshine dew drops off my brow like blood from a festered wound cried out when the bag of flour exploded. Rage dissolved like oil in water when we took out the kitchen knives and went hunting.
Reconciliation is the Last Thing on My Mind
When you cut me from your soul did it hurt? When you put that blade on the edge of my name, and you sliced scarlet across the lips of every smile, my freely given smiles, did it sting? When you scraped out those words, those secret, wax-sealed words, did you flinch? When you tangled the breeze in my honey-colored hair, did it stick? (lemon juice might do the trick) And when you found that...
Molly, Tread So Softly
I’m finding my way. That’s what the old folks have to say about it. Muddling through with my fingers pressed against these silent walls, the doors whisper my progress, catty and conspiring against me, slammed shut, locked out. Windows, cruel and cold-faced, have a habit of laughing loudly until (curious) I’m beckoned. There, through the solid glass panes sit silk and satin...
There’s something about starlings stark mimic wolf-whistle blue-black in dark star-lit havens and staring, sets my teeth on edge.
An accidental army wife flag burned stands firm in the far green country that placates youth in tin jars and copper kettles filled to each lipped rim with thimbles, pins and buttons shiny white buttons blue threads eyes wide and waiting for news.
Missing you. STOP.
Your words on the wire— the telegraph wire— were delayed by the weight of a murder, like black spots on a thin soul, those crows’ feet bent the wire, and not knowing this, I hated you for a long while.
Nobody sees them, these towels that I’ve thrown in, these hearts that I’ve mended that pay back in small change I barter for friendship and father’s two cents’ worth. Nobody sees them!
“Qu’est-ce que tu fait ce soir?” The little French girl, Adèle, is on a carousel, on a white horse with a burgundy bridle, chattering. She has a pale, North Sea complexion, pleasing features, bright pink cheeks. She’s dressed in a black and scarlet costume dress. Her waist-length hair falls in brown curls down her back, loose ribbons braided fast. She laughs frivolously and often. This is...
Quiet, Miss Daisy
In her room, she shuts the door and waits by the window where she shoos away the damn pigeons flown down to perch on sills and rain gutters all fluttering and cooing and gray and dowdy and making a general ruckus… and she waits for things to happen.
Outside St. Mary's
It’s something, isn’t it? The happy laugh of two people grasping at the wind, the way she fixes his tie before they get out and go in.
shellfish surprise bits of bread in the pot kettle corn medley scratch scratch scratch as I pen this thing out remnants on a table with pine grains level each and every late night catastrophe
Weekend Deal →
April 14th is the 100th anniversary of the Titanic Disaster. In honor of that, I’ll be offering (for this weekend only) the ebook edition of my novel “May It Be” at the reduced price of $2.99. Preview available by following the above link.
Check, please? I'm leaving.
With our fingers crossed and blood exchanged, I made a pact with you. We both broke it… though fire & wine & winter weather will probably be blamed too.
Heel pavement clatter river sludge t(w)o(o) whirlpools of a handicapped accessible fishing dock said the old man to the young man I don’t know why they bother.
The reception line weaves through city blocks and wheat fields. As far as I’m concerned, we might as well be in Tahiti or the tacky parts of Paris instead of this brick top church and garden gazebo strung with cheap yellow night lights. Yes, mother… I shook his hand— his skin was cool and clammy.
Paint me famished: blackberry lips and sea salt skin, chocolate eyes and honey hair served with limes and lots of gin.
Coming Up Under
What’s a flywheel press one for assistance, came a sound like metal gears in his pounding head. Take two aspirin and listen to this: the lady’s voice is silkworm smooth but he’s tied in knots that can’t get loose.
3:30 am: Last Joke's On Me
Slip me a set up with nothing but tangles in my hair and your tongue too loose in madam cherry’s mouth. This punch-drunk line ends with you on the couch.
Divine and Clever Comedies
Lights out lights on but nobody’s home well maybe the dog grumbling around after cats and chickens and clueless he’s seven to one on minutes.
May It Be - A Titanic Story →
My book is live in Apple’s iBookstore! Just $3.99 m’dears for a bittersweet love story that will make you cry. Go ahead, buy it. You know you want to :)
maybe it’s too short (maybe you’re too short) tripped on thee third word and fish linestangled in the water because it’s all about pushing his buttons
with tulips, my sister said
Knee deep in my white, weathered bones, and in the smooth circumspective fingertips on my right hand, I can feel the ebb and flow of how things go and I don’t know if it’s not nonsense after all.
Dig deep in loose, brown leather muck and red, smeared over soil like plaster and newly mixed war paint. Drain dry this cup, elixir like falls from snow mountains, dripped down black branches, washed over small pebbles. Soak up this sun, light glinting off a discarded dime of spilled dew in your gardens, and bloom!