This is for your mother, Kathleen. Even after I stopped loving you, I couldn't move her from my heart. This poem was written when my relationship with words was rawer, but the sentiment is still there. May she sleep in peace on this crisp Mother's Day. The world has been a colder place without her.
La mer a crevé dans rien / comme vous l’avez fait / il y a six ans maintenant
After I tell him I'm tired of crashing / into someone else's desperation, I reach / for you and conquer misplaced loyalty
My piece "in conversation with yet another therapist i stopped seeing" was announced as a finalist in the Lascaux Prize in Poetry competition. To rank in the top 16 out of 2000 is to realize that I may, in fact, be a poet. The work will be published later this year and I am STOKED.
I am pleased to announce the very recent acceptance and publication of my poem "Passive Drop" on Dime Show Review today. It is an honor to be included in this publication for a second time.
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.