My writing

The Asphodel Meadow

He invited my wife to hike up a mountain. She laughed. She twisted her hair in a tight bun. He stepped out onto the porch and picked up the morning newspaper. The air was cool. Dew covered the buttercups. He put the roof down on his sports car. A neighbor peeked through the curtains. Lamb's wool covered the car seats. My wife put on her shorts. She pulled a pink T-shirt over her black bra. She slipped her feet into white sandals. She nestled in the sheepskin. He handed her the newspaper. She dropped it on the floorboard. 

She turned to him and said, "Look at what passes for the new. You will not find it there but in despised poems."

[Continue reading at the Summerset Review]

Traveler #17

By the time he was 46 years old, he had orbited eight planets, and then, finally, they selected him to go live on one for a time.

The blue surface felt like moss. Even through zinc boots and socks insulated with an aluminum alloy that left a rash on the soles of his feet, the planet felt luscious. Stepping onto the surface was exhilarating, as if he were the first to ever touch another planet.

[Continue reading at JONAH Magazine]

Birdsong

In your city, a beautiful bird appears. It is small, the size of a tight fist. Amidst the glass and cement, it seems fragile, vulnerable. The type of creature that would sing. 

[Continue reading in issue 243 of Crack the Spine]

ffrrfr

A harsh woman commands that I go look into – go sniffing around for – a smoking pot.

I'm on my way to school, in a subway station, I’m counting rats on tracks, my train is approaching. Six rings, I pick it up, I’m hit with this shrill girl, and I don’t say a thing. An awkard call at dawn.

“No, no, no, you numb skull,” this chick sighs, “Not a burning trashcan!”
“I didn’t say a word,” I blat back at Angry Gal, “and I am not saying, am not going

to say, not thinking of saying, a word.”

[my novel, coming soon]