Category Archives: Fiction and “Poetry”

I don’t write much poetry, nor do I claim to even understand the genre well, but here’s a small collection of things I’ve written that approximate the form, as well as a few bursts of fiction.

Fear, Over Time

It began in my body.
My brain, free of a fear filter, couldn’t contain it. 


Maybe because it came at me like an endless stream of gamma radiation, 
I built myself a protective lead suit 
that looked like anger. 
When fear came at me, I blasted it back outwards.


And I,

the I that observes, the scientist I,

moved up and to the right,

perched in a non-body place,

staring safely down at a meat shield taking hits to the chest.

I was in a car crash that killed three people.

More, depending on how you measure death. 
A passenger: a passive participant in an apocalypse. 
My head cracked open and the old me –

the one that only lived to 17 –

poured out along with the blood.
The new me, a corpse existing in a body made of terror. 
My anger and rage an all-consuming flash fire lighting my way.

In my 30th year came therapy

and a pill

that forced me –

the I, my shadow –

from the safety of above and to the right

back into my body. 

But I never made it passed my head.

Now my body holds my world’s fear

and all the rage

of my human existence. 

I stay in my protective shell –

emerging only long enough 

to shield my heart.

Lightning warfare.



Except, of course, when I’m writing.


Then I’m naked and free and look upon the page with my Medusa stare,

daring it to turn to cinders.

But it never does.


The page always contains me.


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Jake and Danny

“What you got for me, kid?” Big Jake asked through the smoke of the cigar he’d tucked away on the left side of his mouth, as he leaned over his mammoth wooden desk to shake my hand. Then, he reclined back in a leather chair large enough to accommodate his 6’ 5”, 240 pound frame.

“Yeah, okay,” I handed Big Jake the demo I’d recorded in my dad’s basement while he was out of the country on business – just me and an acoustic Yamaha on a four track recorder. It was slow, melodic, and lyric-heavy. Nearly monotone. Something different entirely from the honky tonk sounds I’d made my name on – less about the way women will break your heart and more about the way life does. “So, I’ve written 12 new songs. Never done anything like it. Take a listen to this shit, Jake!” Continue reading

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October 2014 Poetry Project: Card One

French fashion card

Mirror, mirror on the wall
who’s the most wanton one of all?
You see chiffon, taffeta, lace –
a lady poised, exuding grace.
Each night, I strip away the pearls
peel away the layers,
remove the stuff of girls.
Underneath, my body’s lined
full of stretchmarks,
Like the mystical bird of ash and fire,
I strip down
to my most base desire:
to love
be loved
exist with my whole heart
in this shell
this work of art.
In the private dark of night,
my naked self burns most bright.
It’s mine and mine alone;
this beautiful self that I call home.
So in the full shine of morn,
I decorate
and I adorn.
I suit up in dainty armor
to be the muse
the constant charmer.
I protect, project, you see;
I keep the loveliest bits for me.

This is the first of two cards I will be sending to strangers, whose names were given to me as part of the Postcard Poem Project. The assignment was to write a poem based on what’s going on in the picture on the card. 

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The Blush is off the Rose City

It wasn’t even dusk on the west coast when I sprawled out
on the king sized bed in a hotel room in Chelsea,
my legs and arms spread wide as they go,
no limbs at risk of touching any edge,
of falling off the luxurious comfort of vacation.
My burning eyes closed on their own
as I lay thinking
I should take the subway into Boston and make wild love to it,
this city I’ve just met.

The flight was overbooked.
“We need a volunteer,” they said.
“Who’s willing to delay going back?
Who is eager to stay another day?”
Or a week? Or forever?
Who’s willing to cancel their life altogether?

I could’ve already returned to the city of roses and bridges and rain,
To the dome of gray sky.
To the sitting job and the passionless demands
of adulthood.
To the mild coma of daily life.
To the place where I exchanged my youth
for a tired, middle aged woman.

A place whose charms and oddities,
once so delightful,
I’d like to once again be endeared to.

I came to it dry and sun withered,
and it made me moist;
I soaked it up like a dried sponge in a rain storm.
But now I’m damp
and I feel split
like fruit left to ripen too long on the vine.

I wouldn’t come back at all
if not for our children.
They belong to it
as much as me
and it’s they who pull me back,
like the sun draws the earth toward it

September 25, 2013

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