• Featured,  Short Stories,  Works

    Death Wish

    The rush of wind forms into words. “If you could know what it is to die, to experience it, to be one with it, would you?” The shadows draw together into the long strands of nimble shape. Cloaked at once, but then reveals the face. Fine lines betray not an age.

  • Poems,  Works

    An Idea of Tomorrow

    Pencil drop, A teacher provides Out of pocket. It’s their own dime. Yet, passed amidst discord, She cannot see nor sneer Upon such meager coin. She holds too dear Without fear Her own dime. Now is the time To live…WITHIN our time To see that which plagues Or fellow’s friend And to welcome those Who learn strife Is always the days bitter end. Why not be better? We are better. Open our arms. Open your arms. Do not let inequity rule Nor the golden house Once white fall To this gilded flame Of populist rancor Fueled By a divide bled between us. Remember first who we are. American First? That is…

  • Featured,  Short Stories,  Works

    In The Beginning Was Logos

    Published: Sick Lit Magazine, 7/27/2016. In the beginning was not a primordial mass. In the beginning was knowledge. In the beginning was logos. And in the end, there was nothing. All knowledge is outside time. What if in the beginning, you were logos? What if you knew that if you told anyone you would finally die? Would you even want to live if everyone you met could not retain the knowledge of ever meeting you? This is your life. You are still alive. Different eyes, different skin, different scents, but you are you, and you are logos. Can you live? Do you want to live? Will you tell them the…

  • Featured,  Short Stories,  Works

    The Human Quotient

    The human quotient fractures, lost, pitted against itself. Time repeats. The past and the present are the future. The hum of dissecting life reverberates. :: Replay core protocol :: We found new life. We left behind ourselves. Look back. Never forget. :: stop playback ::

  • Featured,  Poems,  Works

    When a Bullet Strikes the Rain

    When a Bullet Strikes the Rain Vanishing, one following the next Eyes squint at the dark Droplets sizzle with staccato Speed equates to the sear A path laced with intent Quaking, she envisioning the casket Finger flicks from the trigger Fabric unweaves with requiescence Choices lead to outcomes Are all paths laced with intent Shattering, both losing the memory Air blasts from lungs Skin rends without discourse Pain asks what is between What paths are not laced with intent Hating, he admonishing the regret Pistol falls from grip Lead digs without remorse Fragments dissolve to void Intent pervades even after death

  • Multimedia Art,  Poems,  Works

    Jazz at 5AM

    I had fun relearning cursive for this one. Hope you enjoyed it. The text is below.  Jazz at 5AM Jazz at 5 AM Creaking bones These rusty hinges conjoined Weighted down, this solid ground Grinding another man’s toil While ink dries in the pen The muse withers and petrifies Like a raisin misplaced on a darkened shelf My appetite wanes Under the pressure of banker gains To find my feet To relearn the intrepid burn Repeat  

  • Poems,  Works

    I Believe

    Water of night Ever bright Glimmering iridescent With vague dreams Of heavenly seas Ever bright Splendid lights See into me Without fear I weep Splendid lights What a sight Simmering hope With eternal thoughts Of fragrant thee What a sight Serene height Tepid heart Without doubt I believe  

  • Short Stories,  Works

    Fly Catcher’s Children

    Arieth glanced each way up the road to check for cars. All clear. Now or never, she told herself. With a deep breath, she inched her way towards the door of the Fly Catcher’s shop, her small frame shivering in her tightly buttoned peacoat, only partly due to the autumn chill. She blew a rogue strand of her curly red hair from her eyes. Why did she forget her hat again? Can’t remember everything. The shop was an unobtrusive place, nestled between a barber shop and an art gallery, having no windows, just a single aged sign, made of brass lettering, faded as if the hand of polish had not…

  • Short Stories,  Works

    Wisteria Needs

    “I’m sorry.” “It’s OK, Ann, I’ll be fine.” “Are you sure?” “Do I have much of a choice?” “Mom, you can’t think like that…Well anyways, I hear Jim coming downstairs, I need to get the kids ready.” “Taking them to the zoo again?” “No, Annie has ballet. It’s strange…but life somehow still goes on.” “It has to dear.” “Call me if you need anything.” “I will.” Liz held the receiver long after her daughter’s voice clicked off as if she yearned to find another sound within the soft static of the empty line. Noticing the absurdity of what she was doing, she quickly hung up the phone. Two weeks since…

  • Short Stories,  Works

    Lights Out

    Fredrick sat on his king size bed in his apartment tucked into the lush countryside of the Hamptons, tapping the front cover of his October issue of playboy magazine. His wife wasn’t home yet. How was he going to get fucked? A quick glance at his red oak nightstand proved it to be eight o’clock already. How long had he been trying to catch some occasional ass on Showtime? Man, the bitch never took this long. He tossed the magazine on the bed, a sharp contrast to the pink flowers arrayed on the down comforter. He hated them.

  • Poems,  Works

    Splintered Glass of Mind

    Splintered glass of mind Shattered mine Memories like quicksilver slip from my thoughts Playfully dancing in pools of words It dares to reflect, my painful game So to learn that which brings A bit of cohesion Memory of me It melds this mirror of my mind What is it that I own that is mine That which was That which is That which will None shall be Nor shall I recall Most when they think before they are They smile or cry at the glimmer of past Mine is none to find Vague hints of a life Splintered glass of mind Forever mine It gives no fear It gives no…

  • Blog,  Events,  Projects

    Watermill Grimoire Project

    In January of 2010, I was blessed to be selected by an internationally acclaimed group of artists including Robert Wilson for a residency at the Watermill Center. The New York Foundation for the Arts through the East End Arts Council provided me with a grant, which made the residency possible. To date I’ve posted a series of vignettes about the characters. The Watermill Center was also kind enough to create a video and photo gallery of the event which closed out my residency. Documentation Watermill’s Event Page | Character Vignettes | My Photo Gallery | Watermill’s Photo Gallery | Event Video

  • Short Stories,  Works

    Gift of a Soul

    Alfred gingerly squeezed his granddaughter’s shoulder, a hollow assurance, he knew. “The hour is old and yet this wretched siege still bays its horn.” “When is it going to end, Grandpa?” “Soon I think.” “Really?” Elsa perked up with a bright smile, a contrast to the dark hour. “Do not let joy win your heart yet.” “Why?” “We are losing.” “Should we pray, Grandpa?” “It’s past the time for prayer.” “But, isn’t that what you do?”

  • Poems

    The Sacrosanct

    Cardinal sins of the divine Cannot force the benign Even with teardrops dry Echoes of vain remorse Celestine words chiseled with despair Calamity of the soul unveiled Plagues the sanctity of the sacrosanct The shrine inspires no hope The water pure no more The pulpit shakes and cracks The pews laden with dust The chorus forgotten The pipes frozen The children defiled The church reviled Calamity of the soul unveiled Celestine words chiseled with despair Echoes of vain remorse Even with teardrops dry Cannot force the benign Cardinal sins masked as divine

  • Poems

    Soul Fairy

    You wish to feel You wish to be You wish for everything Then pay the fee Broke you say Not a penny or a dime You have a soul Then rich you are to me You wish to feel You wish to be You wish for everything Then pay the fee A little soul for me Tickles the lips Sweet sweet soul from you to me You will have everything You wish to feel You wish to be You wish for everything Then pay the fee What you give unto me I give unto you Tasty and sweet Your soul to me You wish to feel You wish to be…

  • Short Stories,  Works

    Coffee to Soothe the Flame

    Laughter, with hints of youthful vile and ignorance, echoed down her alley, a path brimmed with stench and decay, hacked into a hidden alcove in the Chelsea District. This great New York City, not a comfort, was still her home.  Cassandra lifted her eyes at the hollow sound, her long lashes barely concealed her red-rimmed gaze, not an emotional plight, but a daily toil. Her pulse sped, urging her to flee. The dim light of the gibbous moon caused her to squint as she measured the intent of a band of teenage boys. Their pale blue shadows stretched towards her like ethereal hands, clawing a trail around the refuge of…

  • Vignettes,  Works

    Arhat

    Written for the Watermill Grimoire Project. “Welcome to the Archive. I am Arhatta, but if it suits you call me Arhat.” Stillness kept the calm soothed, stillness of my heart, untouched by calamity, vice, or vitality. Death not kin, but rebirth conquered by the brahmacarya, by the culmination of life. “I have peace, I have harmony with all things, and with the upward twist of my lips the world shall know me through my visage. For I am neither what I was nor what I am. I am the visage. I am Lohan, the Arhatta.” “You will begin to know us. We are the Archive. We each have our tale.…

  • Vignettes,  Works

    King Bamci

    Written for the Watermill Grimoire Project. My palace has fallen, my subjects gone, but my family is with me. At least I have solace. I was from the Singa Raja Palace. I was King, I am King, but with no throne. “Call me Bamci.” He scratched his shoulder, his eyebrows turned inward with annoyance, the never ending kind. “Sorry it itches. It always itches.” He stole a glance upwards and smiled at the ceiling above. “At least I need not fear more of the white bombs from the sky.” Bamci went silent as if confused or lost, thinking on some minor thought. “The itching, it is so much at times it…

  • Vignettes,  Works

    Cikopich

    Written for the Watermill Grimoire Project. “Ha, I escaped the flame and the bity ity tatanua floats away. No harm to me. The soul whispers death to ears. I’m Cik.” Rattling in place, as he shifted from foot to foot on the paved floor, Cik broadened his smile to a splendid row of teeth. “I’ve many things to do. I’m with the Archive you see. I’m Cik. Nice to meet you. You ask what I do or where I’m from. Ha, I care not what brought me here. I’m warrior, Guardian Against the Flame. I control the Sacred Red Box. No flame can lick, our flesh unscorched.” These questions flicked in…

  • Vignettes,  Works

    Ana Deo

    Written for the Watermill Grimoire Project. We are united, we are one. We are neither nor the either. We are the tutelar, we are the ana deo, the ancestral pair. We speak as one, without loss of the other. We are one. Our home, off on misty shores, broods in our mind, thinking upon how fair they fare without us. We used to guard and protect the house of spirits, the heda. We lived at the greatest heights, not in flight or size, but in other things of much more concern. You may not understand this, for we are one, and neither are we whole or together, but we still stand…

  • Featured,  Short Stories,  Works

    Angels In Despair

    Noah whispered to the bundle in his arms as a passing breath of wind raked across his skin. “So you’re the last Hope. I’ll do my part. You’ll get to the hospital, but can you bring what you’re called?” “Hey Noah, what were you saying?” Tom went rigged and his eyes deepened in their sockets. “Wait! Do you feel that?” He shoved away from the willow tree he had been leaning on, strode out of the shadow of its hanging branches, licked the back of his hand, and lifted it to the air. “There’s a nasty breeze.” “Do you think it’s the Black Wind? “It has the bite and I’m…

  • Vignettes,  Works

    Iyo or Tena

    Written for the Watermill Grimoire Project. What is the place you call the Archive? Hmm, I like it not. Easily broken. Too astir, too active for the likes of me. I’m from afar like us all, but I find myself more content than most. I’m almost a thousand years old. Pity those years steered by so fast. But, this is splendid company I keep. Many tales they have, which are worth your ear. I advise, listen, and learn, but keep calm within for the unsteady heart cannot bend ear to good use. Oh, have I forgotten to introduce myself. Pity on me, time sure does move fast. I’m Iyo if you…

  • Vignettes,  Works

    Kala

    Written for the Watermill Grimoire Project. “So you want to know something about me? Well, what fancies ya?” Kala sniffed, his lava rock nostrils flaring. “I’m from Bali, but not originally mind you. I’ve been many a place and Bali wasn’t my favorite. Not a bad sort, just not my favorite. No, I’m from Java, the old Java when times were dust and people vain. Eh, things probably haven’t changed much have they?” Kala’s eyes ground in circles, itching the ear. His eyes stopped, he crunched his teeth together, and let his stone tongue run across his lips as if parched. “You know what, I could go for some greens. Do…

  • Vignettes,  Works

    Tatanua

    Written for the Watermill Grimoire Project. The Malagan is a story. It is a telling of times which were; a telling to guide the spirits to the beyond. It is a celebration of unity and a blessing for those gone. I’m that memory of a tale, which should carry the wild spirit of he who has passed. Yet, my story is forgotten, I’m not a tale, nor a memory or a thought. I’m haunted by the tatanua I’ve betrayed, the spirit which doesn’t see the land of the golden sun. I see him walking amid the tall pines, a wisp of smoke in the twilight breeze. I see him skidding over…

  • Vignettes,  Works

    Kelirieng

    Written for the Watermill Grimoire Project. “I am Kelirieng, I was and always will be Kelirieng, no matter what tongue twists the words of my name. Death be to those who defy me the honor of my name. I am Kelirieng and always will be. I want you to remember. I want them to know so I don’t become forgotten.” Kelirieng felt adrift, weightless, but not like floating on a cloud of glee or lifted in a spring breeze. He felt apart, separated, because he was in six pieces, to be precise. He thought it would hurt, the axes chopping away at his feet with sweat and bitter spit till he…

  • Featured,  Poems,  Works

    Willow

    Published: Mississippi Crow Magazine, Fall 2009. Willow, of a specter’s dream, breathe You fell lightly down the dew covered well Like a broken feather your bones whistle Caught up in the wind of your end You forget why What irony It dispels all that is you Crack against the dry bottom It becomes useless You don’t even remember who pushed

  • Articles,  Works

    Best iPhone App for Writers – Story Tracker

    I've been using my iTouch for a while now and I've downloaded numerous applications with an eye on productivity, entertainment, and knowledge. Through the cacophony of the iPhone App popularity game, on a rare occasion I'll give voice to a product worth the hype. Strangely, the most useful application I discovered so far has little to no exposure. I hope to change the mistake. Thus enters Story Tracker. Being a writer, I have found this application unbelievable useful and well worth every penny, even at a sum of $9.99. A small price to pay in order to help yourself get published. This tool helps you in countless ways to track,…

  • Poems,  Works

    The Eyes May See Differently

    Salt scraped from eyes Where, oh where are you Born with brittle sight I think no less Pitted spirit Left to mourn Broken nye Cast the mold of myself To make anew without you But spark no more, glazed the mind Meek no more, the shadow of my mold Always lined with vile self Oh, tender self wake What I made masters over me But dawn burns no more Grinning despair The smile kills the truth Animal to myself I know not where to go Always it ends in revenge To what To ourselves, foolish child This convoluted shell Breathe no more And dancing free, kissing lips, joyful tears Prized…

  • Poems,  Works

    Respite

    We all carry a hope for respite Such wishful plights Let us remember the night We yearn Anon the sight We look to said yonder Away whence we came To houses sterile and new And untouch glades, lush, unwalked Only to watch Forgone childish play, childish toys Yes, the magic dies With a sigh Our skin crinkles Our eyes narrow Our souls hunched in crumbled bodies Yes, the magic dies Till child we see once more And in the sparkle of their eyes We either cringe Or know whence we came And laugh the glee of respite and see anon no more Or live to die anon once more

  • Multimedia Art

    Drool

    The image is of me in Japan, when I was horribly sick, while the text is a consciousness piece, also called drool, I wrote about a guy in a insane asylum.

  • Poems,  Works

    Gone

    I, as you, walk down this road of broken glass It dulls the mind with discord – memory It is instinct to look back What else is there to do, but move on to feeble hope Lost is the string of the grey stained path The pavement is cracked The land withers in the mirror of the glazed eye What have we song our lives to become How can we scrape ourselves together Into a semblance of existence It is true Our nails cannot bite deep enough Our screams cannot pierce loud enough Our sickness torment enough We do not hear ourselves We break We do not see That we are Gone

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