friday

jubilant friday lingers on the lips and tongues, bitter and sweet drinks offering fun, freedom, forgetting. Friday music hovers over minds clouded with rushed desires, cramming life into too short hours. Frenetic Friday drives us mad with yearning. I wrote this draft as part of National Poetry Writing Month. I hope to collect these works…

thursday

Thursday is false. Thursday drowns in unrealized desires. Thursday the glass is neither half empty, nor half full. The glass simply is. Thursday rots into humus, nourishing nothing. Nothing is left. I wrote this draft as part of National Poetry Writing Month. I hope to collect these works for a mixed media/writing piece I am…

wednesday

this fulcrum of servitude balances precariously , as a week can dip in either direction.  Wednesday thunder songs are the loudest: flashes of brilliance and rain that promise growth. Wednesday romance is the strongest: not built on frivolity or neediness. Wednesday love is enduring, straddled evenly on both sides. Wednesday is the point we say:…

tuesday

Concentrate: try to think of a way to make Tuesday special. There is none. ———– Thinking of songs mentioning Tuesday. The Moody Blues and The Blue Nile sum up Tuesday: moody and blue. Tuesday is a timed impasse that cannot be walked around, only endured. ———– Yet tuesday hovers like mist obscuring hills. You cannot…

monday

gray clouds mist on monday morning commuters crawling on gray roadways. A new work week holds no promise, only repetition. Each day festers into the next. I wrote this draft this morning as part of National Poetry Writing Month. I hope to collect these works for a mixed writing media piece I am working on…

sunday

the thorns of a new week crown through the pink clouds in sulfur-yellow shards of sun. each passing day, week, I fight to make this stumbling more than the sorrow of missing you, less than the joy of counting the days until we are reunited. Time is a two-faced lover: easing and stealing. Yet I…

The Runes (a sneak peek at my next novel)

Prologue It was like a bur—the kind you get stuck to your clothing crossing a late summer field or side-of-the-road ditch—only, it was stuck to her insides. She could feel it there, burrowing in, deeper each moment, contaminating her blood, feeding on her. Ilene pressed her hands to her stomach until her exposed flesh turned…

Dialogue — a brief thought

“Dialogue should simply be a sound among other sounds, just something that comes out of the mouths of people whose eyes tell the story in visual terms.” Alfred Hitchcock This is excellent advice for a visual medium, like film. In writing, how do we accomplish the same affect? Communication is 90% non-verbal. When speaking, what…

revelation

And you said, You and I as a couple are as ironic as Mother Teresa with a photon gun. I said, “Oh, I know.  You are so handsome, so witty and you really have your shit together.” I guess it wasn’t funny. A two year old letter read and reread countless times lies on the…