The Golden Years

“Truth”
Pours from the pen of one vain columnist
The words that you write
Cut like a knife
Everyone believes you
You think that they do

Youth
Seeps from the seams of your festering soul
Mostly just dripping
Influence slipping
Slipping
Slipping

And if only you knew
If only you had the wisdom
In the moment to ask
If only you had the shoes in which to dance
To take a chance to free yourself
Enough to hear the story
Of us millennials,
Generation idle
I-D-L-E
not I-D-O-L

Scorn
Resides in the core of your trivial mind
Consternating dudgeon
Caustic curmudgeon
Clinging to the past
With weak hope it will last
Mostly just drooling
Barely fooling
Yourself

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The Sea Rose

On the surface appears the first ripple of sound.
Somewhere on stage a drumstick clatters to the floor
and echoes through the empty cavern in which
two thousand people sit on the edge of their seats,
knowing everything is about to change.
But this silence, the silence before the storm
is agonizing — two thousand breaths
are waiting to released with the first downbeat.
Below us the sea is swirling, the voices filling
the air around us as the lightning grows in the distance.
The storm  is awakening. First, the hushed murmur
of violin bow on guitar strings, and soft touches
of fingertips on instruments, with a low hum of a bass note
rumbling below all other sounds.
And then —

A cymbal crash and the music bursts
into a wave full of sound and fury, rushing
through the stadium in powerful bass gales
while the thunder from the drum kit fills the room.
The tempest increases as
we sit on the deck, in the nosebleed seats,
and watch as the storm brews below me
We seafarers are merely trying to survive
this musical maelstrom, in little row boats of expectation,
waiting anxiously for the first rush of water
into the hulls of our ships, but being unprepared
for when the sound-waves crash over the ship into our bodies,
instantly drowning any emotional stability we ever had.
Catharsis through cloudburst.

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Westerly Winds

In eastern Wyoming snakes a narrow creek along the vacant landscape, its muddy waters barely trickling from north to south parallel to Highway 18 as the area’s few travelers pay it any mind. In the middle of the creek, on a lonely island displayed modestly beneath the blinding sun, sways a single narrowleaf cottonwood tree in the unceasing gales, the only sign of life above the surface of the dull waters.

Old Woman Creek, they call it. Legend has it the locals named it after seeing the ghost of an Indian woman dancing in the moonlight along the banks. They say she still visits the creek during the full moon every month, and some seasoned elders, gray and haggard from the country sun, even say that the creek runs backward those nights.

I’ve never seen the creek reversed, but I’ve seen it dried up, and from the way the locals talk, that’s the old woman’s fault too. She’s haunting us, they say; don’t go anywhere near that river. They say she lives in that cottonwood tree now and she dances on those banks even still.

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A Perceptible Break

Gus Porter woke from slumber at precisely 5:45 a.m. as he did every morning and sat up in bed, stretching his shaking arms above his head as far as his arthritic elbows would allow, the flab of the skin on his biceps drooping back down into his pajama sleeves. The light was just peeking through the cracks in the Venetian blinds adorned to his frost-covered window, and he yawned to welcome the new day. He groaned with the aches and sleepiness of a man in his ninth decade, and when he swung his veiny legs off the side of the bed into his worn suede slippers and stood up, he walked straight out of the room without turning around to notice thad he had left his body lying prone and deathly still in the bed behind him.

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Intersection

A couple stands at the intersection holding hands loosely, their fingers intertwined but relaxed, indicative of the stage of their relationship when passion is not their priority but a physical connection is. The girl, who can’t be older than 17, wears a knee-length pleated floral skirt above laced-up leather boots under which her feet are surely sweating in the dry July heat; the boy, who looks even younger with his apparent inability to grow facial hair, holds her hand calmly while fidgeting in his shorts pocket with the other, twisting the cloth back and forth below his fingers. His shirt has a silhouette of mountains on the front of it and a Colorado flag as a backdrop, indicating his tourist status to this mountain town — likely a souvenir from the t-shirt shop down the street. The couple stands at the front of the line watching the cars pass back and forth in front of them, waiting only for the little white neon man on the light pole fifty feet away to tell them it’s safe to walk. She taps her toes twice and draws a circle with the toe of her boot on the unresistant sidewalk; he looks at her and lets go of her hand. They both stand with their hands on their hips waiting to cross.

A bicyclist swerves up next to them, jutting his wheel out into the intersection mere inches from traffic turning right on the adjacent street. He wears a helmet and sunglasses and doesn’t look either direction; he stares only straight ahead, waiting also for the traffic light to become red so he can cross safely. The couple gives him a side-eyed glance as he leans on one foot and one pedal entirely too close to them for comfort. Music blares from his headphones, the cord attached to which hangs dangerously close to his handlebars; first only a faint drumbeat can be heard through the headphones from a few inches’ distance, but when the song picks up it can clearly be identified as “Livin’ On a Prayer.” The girl hears the beat and begins unconsciously nodding her head to it; her boyfriend looks over at her and smiles; she smiles back sheepishly. The music seems to propel the bicyclist, and he inches forward slightly into the intersection but the white neon man doesn’t change for the biker’s will. A row of cars farther down the next block impedes everyone’s views from the oncoming traffic, and the biker is impatient for the light to change. He, too, must wait.

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Big news!

The Priest_coverHello, lovely readers! I have more news for those of you who visit this blog!

I’ve taken the next steps in my writing and publishing adventure:

1. First I’ve just published my novella, The Priest, on Amazon! This is the longest piece I’ve ever written, at 37,000 words, and it was a blast to write the whole way through. Please go check it out!

2. In the spirit of promoting my work, I’ve just made a Facebook page and a Goodreads author page for posting updates and excerpts from my work. I’m just getting the hang of both of these sites as promotional resources, but please check them out and stay tuned.

Thanks for your continued interest! I’ll still be posting poems and short stories here, but it’s been a whirlwind lately with all this other stuff I’ve been invested in. I promise I’ll be back here soon!

 

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Fetishes, or: I Am Not A Serial Killer

Your beauty exists in more than your charm;
The moment we strangers meet and lock eyes
Please give unto me your hands and your arms.

Your smile, stunning; your eyes like stars;
A body made for unadulterated delight,
But your beauty exists in more than your charm.

The grasp and dexterity of your muscles are
Chemical elements that ‘twixt us are not finite.
Give unto me your hands and your arms.

Other women with allure you disarm
But my romance goes far deeper than sight:
Your beauty exists in more than your charm

Your brachial power stripped of its harm,
And frozen for my benefit with formaldehyde;
Given unto me your hands and your arms.

Strung from the ceiling or preserved in jars,
Your ruby blood droplets gleam in the light.
Your beauty exists in more than your charm;
Given unto me your hands and your arms.

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Author’s note: The Mush Hole is published!

51gce5CAL%2BL._SX312_BO1,204,203,200_Hello readers! Exciting news on this blog! My story “The Mush Hole” is officially published! I have been working on self-publishing some of my work, and this story I wrote last year is up first! Please go take a look and purchase it if you’re so inclined! (And spread the word!) It’s available for Kindle and Kindle varieties right now, and I will be looking into expanding these options in the future as I get the hang of self-publishing.

And as I begin working on longer stories this summer, I intend to publish those on Amazon as well, and I will put links here that you can follow to find them.

So without further ado, here is “The Mush Hole”!

 

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Now That You’re Gone

Now that you’re gone I go out less.
I stay inside in the evenings
in my pajamas and eat popcorn
from a bowl while watching
Friends reruns, a luxury i never had
when you were here.
In those days I smiled plainly,
chuckled at your jokes, kissed your cheek;
you kissed mine back as though
a few weeks ago
it hadn’t been
bright red and then purple and black
from the back of your hand.
In those days we went out
with your friends, never mine,
and you squeezed my hand under the table,
threatening me soundlessly
until your knuckles
were white and mine were red
while above the table you drank your
beers and laughed
at your friends’ asinine jokes.
They never knew. I never dared
say a word to anyone,
barely even to myself, although
I knew something was wrong.

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This Is Not A Romantic Poem

This is not a romantic poem.
It’s 11:30 at night
and I desperately
want you to text me back.
I’ve been waiting all day
to hear from you.
Should I text you again?
No,
you’ll respond eventually.
But this waiting game is agony.

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