• 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


    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


    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…

  • 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…

  • 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


    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


    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


    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


    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

  • Blog,  Press

    Interview on WLIU 88.3 FM

    Judah was interviewed on WLIU 88.3 FM by host Bonnie Grice along with Gayle Wagner and Pat Synder. The focus is on the recent grant Judah received from the New York Foundation for the Arts issued by the East End Arts Council for his residency at the Watermill Center.

  • 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


    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


    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


    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

  • Featured,  Short Stories,  Works

    Lord of the Dome

    “Little rats, all my little rats.” The Lord of the Dome inhaled the damp rotten air with an impish grin, staring down upon the sniffing masses of his devoted followers. “Yes, yes. Drip goes the water to the tune, no gloom, of my glorious realm.”

  • Featured,  Short Stories,  Works

    The Trees of Evermore

    The forest watched Jared run. He could feel their eyes on him, even if he didn't believe it. He had grown to love these woods, and today he felt a part of them. He moved among them. Under branch, over fallen tree, around bush, and across stream, he ran, more akin to the forest than a passenger under its shadowy gaze.

  • Vignettes,  Works


    he lay broken because he must being so torn of flesh and mind how could he do else yet ponder the pitfalls of his twisted and muddled mind yet our Zea is struck with the difficulty of his lack his room stuffy and hot with not a small dose of irritating humidity and he screams how the hell am I supposed to get out of here but that does about nothing to calm the unrest they call his heart and somehow there is little else he can do in the confines of his self made sterile entrapment so he screams and screams as the chilly night blankets him in deceptive…

  • Vignettes,  Works

    What is Fear

    Fitful, he ponders its meaning. John hasn’t moved it from his porch in three days, fear being his master. The package would seem normal to most people but our dear friend is rather terrified. Now this might be perplexing, unless you understood the horror this box causes dear John, while he locks himself in his house for days. The food dwindles as apprehension rises. “What can I do,” he thinks. On the fourth day the answer seems as evasive as the rat he tried to catch last summer. He wearily sits down on his front doorstep, staring at his intruder with no less tension. Finally, he dares a peak at…

  • Short Stories,  Works

    The Meaning of Rocks

    The bottle slides from Illya’s delicate fingers, landing amidst wild and lush grass. She pinches the long green stocks with her bare toes. It’s soft, like a never ending fur made of life. The early dew coat her feet with chill. She doesn’t notice. “What’s this?” Illya picks up a rough stone, her youthful hands cupping its dark oval shape. A feeling itches at the back of her senses, tempting her out of reality. The rock gains meaning and changes before her eyes or is it in her eyes. It matters little to her. Even the obvious lie before her does not dissuade. This is what she wants and her…

  • Vignettes,  Works

    Coffee Thoughts

    Martha yawned, stretching her arms as she sat up in bed and tried not to wake her husband, who’s gotten distinctively grumpier in his old age. She stood and shuffled over to the door, down the creaky stairs and into the kitchen. Blinking through the oblivion of a fog filled head, she pushed the little black button. This button was simply the wonder and gift of her life. According to Martha, it was truly the greatest invention of man and her only necessity in life, except for dark chocolate with the girls on Sunday, but she wouldn’t talk about such things. Alfred isn’t supposed to know. Besides she was on…

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