I can't believe that I've actually had 10 pieces accepted this year. After setting the goal for myself at the end of July, I never thought I would actually accomplish it; and yet, here we are. For the first time in my life, I am proud of myself as a writer. Please, be a part of my joy and check out my work: "Polytrauma" and "A Great Greco-Roman Romance" are forthcoming in Chantwood Magazine. "Hooping" with be out with Streetlight Magazine. "Interlanguage Fossilization" is out today with Into the Void.
Aphids are laying eggs / underneath my fingernails // I'm looking for ladybugs / to eat them all up, fatted
when i saw the trumpeter blow / the horn, my jericho heart came down, / moved from flesh to fluid.
I tell my friend I think about suicide / every night, the thought a pillow mint
This week has been one of those "When it rains, it pours" sort of situations. After a submission frenzy earlier this month, two of my poems were selected for publication later this year. One was "The Wonton Taco Effect", a piece that I have been trying to have placed for nearly 2 years. The other was "Ceylon, Ceylon", something that I wrote at the kitchen counter last month while a roommate made French toast. I might be a poet after all. bam
Exciting news, everyone. My poem “Rule of Nines” has recently been published by the gracious team at The Indianapolis Review. Please, check it and the other great work out! bam
Your head is a Lazy Susan / spinning busy, out of control / like the wheels of time grinding / you down
My father always told me to look to the stars to find my way home. That was true a long time ago, when he was younger, before the universe started fraying at the edges. The stars haven’t shined brightly in decades. Even if they did, I’m not sure I would know the way home, especially all the way up here. But it’s easy to pretend that I can pinpoint where Earth is out this little window, despite the fact that there is nothing but blackness and the occasional moon or bulbous orange planet that doesn’t remind me of our galaxy at all. We’re far from where we started.
we linger on your hangnails, / preparing to be chewed away.
There is smoke. It has grown thicker over the last hour, invading my lungs and stinging my eyes. I take another hit and begin to cough. Someone laughs, which is to be expected. With six joints circulating between the eight of us, there is a certain etiquette that is expected. The chuckles die down and leave us in silence in the cool dark of someone’s basement that is lit up with Christmas lights. I guess I don’t know where I am. I guess it doesn't matter.