Published: Sick Lit Magazine, 3/16/2017. 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[…]
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[…]
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.[…]
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 ::
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[…]
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[…]
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[…]
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,[…]
“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[…]
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.
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[…]
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[…]
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?”[…]
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[…]
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[…]
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[…]
Below is photo documentation of my January 2010 artist residency at the Watermill Center, where I worked on a collection of stories called the Watermill Grimoire. Watch on Picasa
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[…]
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[…]
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[…]
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[…]
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,[…]
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[…]
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[…]
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[…]
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[…]
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[…]
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, organize, and respond to story submissions. This is excellent for any writer looking to take the serious steps towards publication. Let’s look at a breakdown of the benefits taken from the developer’s site.
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[…]
My story Lord of the Dome was voted to be made into a short film by WeMakeYourMovie. Watch on YouTube I really like what they did with William the rat and the guy who played[…]
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[…]
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.
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[…]