one-man show

i called myself a strange soul, and minutes later i
was spilling guts in the neon city. i was too metaphorical,
too lustrous for the lip-glossy director. i was too elusive
even for myself. are these even my words at all? i thought.
but of course. they must be. i wrote them.
i played into your smile, your effervescent skill
and knew just how scared you were to judge me.
sometimes things just go.
i found, in the end, what i was trying to kill.
i coddled it, swathed it in words and beautiful scar tissue,
and brought it back to life.

tatihou

sometimes spray paint, like ire-coated particles,
is just as good as blood. and age old chains, they still retain
their magic where they stood.

our make-pretends
and nikon lenses sifting through the sand,
we walk with heads held high and notebooks stashed
our lightning eyes and toddler masks.
this is what it means to be, the ocean seems to say.
this is what it's like to live for each and every day.
so who am i to prove it wrong? it's vast and blue and deep
deeper than i, a tiny speck, could ever hope to be
so hugging all my rhyming schemes, i jet across the sky
remembering all i long to keep and breathing out a sigh.

sometimes idols, false and true alike,
can shatter on their own. and when they do, and the levee breaks,
remember tatihou.

the underbelly

there is always something
cataclysmic around the corner
always petri dishes filled with fog
we do not divine these days, but
we feel it, like fragmented prose
spidering up our legs
taking root in our tibias and talons
don't think for a moment we don't all have talons.

there is something, unknowable
waiting for us to tear each other to shreds
i know, i've seen it in my present
don't tell me you're a preacher because
i only want a break.

beauty

all of the roses in my room are dry.
why is that?

all of these petals falling harshly
like autumn too soon
my room will fill with the
amorous dropping of dried-up beautiful things
and i will gasp, unready, waiting to
see what it smells like when i finally go under

give me your leaden shoes
i will fill them with soil and grow
peonies, mountain laurels and roots

i will not try to grow roses. they
never seem to listen.

the ergathon

as a boy, i would draw oars
on paperboard cut-outs of kings and queens
deep, swinging oars made from oak
and ash
and dogwood
they are folded over, now
crushed into shards of paper
cutting memories into my ribs
steering my heart, heaving me
towards a final
realization
i am not like you
i am small
i am frail
but i am new
i am an unborn thing.

head in the clouds

they tell me i've got places to go.
i listen to acoustic covers of
over-sexualized eighties gods and
wondering if beethoven ever wanted lyrics
for his lyricism
there are rocks in my shoes
and pits in my chest. i have been eaten away.
i would like to recycle, to save the earth
but it's hard to have more than
one dream. there are electric trains
round-trip flights, automobiles
but they are all wrong.
why do they tell me i've got places to go?
all i have are places to be.

we interrupt the daily broadcast...

...To direct you towards places where you can buy my short story, "Number Theory", which has recently been published in eBook form by Untreed Reads:

The best place to buy from (i.e. the place that gives me the most money):
Straight from the publisher!

These places are cool, too:
Smashwords
1romanceEbooks. Yeah. (please appreciate that it's listed under "ManLove")
AllRomanceEbooks
OmniLit!
Scribd

If you insist on buying from the Apple iBookstore or the Amazon eBookstore (or some other esoteric webstore), you can wait a bit.

and now back to other, cooler stuff.