I'm a writer who lives in Brooklyn, N.Y. I like poetry and fiction and have had some pieces published in literary journals. I've dedicated this blog to writing, fiction and poetry posts.
I’ve made most of the posts on this blog private when I decided to send my work out for publication.
I did this because most of the publications I targeted—literary journals—want something called “first publication rights” or, they want to be the first to have published the piece. For most literary journals, after the first publication, publication rights revert to the author, meaning that the…
I curled into myself under the covers. A white, hot heat licked the insides of my chest and stomach, heat splinters softened my spine. I pressed my knees to my chest and tried to push the heat back down inside me.
I sunk into sleep and tried not to dream. But in my sleep, an image filled my head. In it, everything fell off me, fell away, like rose petals, like water, sheets, clothes, hair, skin, dreams, teeth, cold and cracked, gone. Behind my eyes, a face swam through me, and I couldn’t tell if it was Kevin’s or Jasmine’s. The face filled me up, until it spilled out and over and pushed out tears in my sleep.
The rest of the story <—— live link. A story about how the protagonists deals with the loss of his family.
Let the dogs run the wet meadow.
Don’t grumble unmapable sadness
at scouring pads of grey cloud abrading
the night sky. Quit fretting about the end
of everything while it’s unfolding. Whining
turns the brain to molasses. Regret clogs
arteries. Born empty-handed, we gawk
at circling hawks, stuff ourselves
with bread and sex. Maybe we scream
or sing. Philosophers say we’re made
of fire and smolder all our lives.
Then ash provides the most elegant
last transport imaginable. No need
for granite slabs or satin-lined coffins.
You’ll waft over your old haunts
as key scenes play out below. Something
in you strains to remember, could almost
narrate incinerated bits of prior lives.
The dogs blazing across the drenched
meadow were once you and you them,
avid, chasing rabbits, as the garrulous
world drawled on and on and on.