Do Nothing, Wait Two Weeks (Villanelle)

The art of dying isn’t hard to master-
simply remember to do nothing at all,
and watch the world fall into quiet disaster.

To sleep is to urge the world to end faster,
inviting the snakes to climb over the wall;
the art of dying isn’t hard to master.

Build your walls with crumbling plaster,
burn the bread and poison your hall,
and watch the world fall into quiet disaster
Continue reading “Do Nothing, Wait Two Weeks (Villanelle)”



IMG_3759A tomorrow without hope of your face
is made sweeter by the hope
of a word-
little ghosts everyday,
no longer feared, but friends
holding my hand from 10 to midnight,
filling my belly and
closing my eyes
as they run through
my fingers

Flash Fiction

Déjà Vu


My phone rang this morning while I stood at my desk, dealing with the usual barrage of problems that weren’t mine- an unidentified number from Seattle, WA. I don’t answer calls while I’m working, but there it was: Seattle, WA. So I answered, hasty, tight with panic that didn’t belong to 8:53 AM on a Thursday.

An unearned déjà vu flooded my ears before sound; a familiarity I have neither written nor spoken, but indelible nonetheless from the countless times played in my head: endless visions of disaster. Visions of answering an unknown number and hearing you, calling from the other end of a gun to say goodbye. Calling from a payphone next to a ditch, at the nasty end of a bender. Calling from the top of a building, from the middle of a bridge, from the edge of a cliff, from the bottom of a well. Do they have many of those in Washington? Continue reading “Déjà Vu”


In Defense of Getting Bored

Scan 129.jpgI’m a bad reader.

Like many other things I’ve accomplished in my life due purely to a desire to prove other people wrong, I learned how to read out of spite. To make a long childhood story short, I skipped the majority of 2nd grade thanks less to a belief in my academic abilities, and more to a surprisingly effective attitude that I would be ok because I had no other choice. Coming out of a Los Angeles hippie commune filled with celebrity children and teachers who believed I would do things when I “was ready”, I found myself in a summer school program designed to keep kids with working mothers occupied, unable to write in print, and unable to read. Continue reading “In Defense of Getting Bored”