Me. The pen. The humbling acceptance of the blank page. The most performative thing about writing with pen/pencil and paper are the ink smudges caught inside the deepening lines of your hand, the growing callous inside your middle finger.
The above is a contender for the cover design of a collection of poems I hope to publish in the spring of 2018. My emotions canvass everything from fear to exaltation to giving into this luminous desire I have to share this collection of approximately thirty-five poems. I began writing the poems in the summer … Continue reading Works In Progress
We hear the word legacy and we think of what we leave behind when we die. Our unencumbered reality may well be this: We leave things behind every day. With each breath. Our skin flakes and lands on windowsills, our hair clogs the drain, that time we smiled at a stranger is now as much … Continue reading The Things We Leave Behind
I believed the stories others told me, and those darker stories I carry with me. I didn't understand story. My voice only sang out in poetry. I'd wasted most of my life on one dream. I quit writing stories for nearly a year. I couldn't not write and there was poetry. . I tried … Continue reading The Only Way Out