Online Published Work

Pidgeonholes

Writ on a Postcard at a Gas Station in Gravesend and Penn Station/Before the Renovation

All manner of Mer crashed Surf in a kind of bowed line and to the beat of Gloria Estefan. So much merriment under a bruised-spat sky. Ballast, I held your long frame, amidst the throngs of passers-by. Made wanton by your pressed touch. We followed the parade to where the rickety wooden coaster, closed for repair, rose like a funeral door…

Platform Review

Wonted Color of Starlight

You arrive impromptu in gym clothes with a good sweat on. Your skin aglow by the coffee shop sign in red that reads: closed. You are out of breath…

Quail Bell Magazine

B Side to Baby, Please Don’t Go, Starless Night, Wingdale Farm, Warehouse Apartment

So dark on the farm we couldn’t make each other out. You asked me what I wanted before the rooster and the dawn. I first deflected, then deferred. You braved the hickory floor and boom-pitch corridor. Your silo-frame missed a step and I willed myself across the room to break your fall. We drove ten miles in the wrong direction looking for anything that might start a fire…

Fine Print Paper

The Old Ale House (issue 8)

Convinced you were over me, kicked up like sawdust, put away like the light and dark swill we drank to little or no effect. I retreated to the corner, tucked myself between the table and the wall. Philip explained, the man was hung like a horseradish…

New Orleans Review

Wingdale Farm in March at Dusk

From her vantage, the man was taller than the hill, taller than the bare basswood, taller than the ruined forge that served as backdrop in the dying light. He stood in a field of frozen feral hops, unaware, shivering. The old bull watched the woman from the hill. Her breath rose from the lower field…

Penn Review

Demolition in the Tropics

All week, I watched her try on other men with her eyes. We were at a couples’ resort, no longer a couple. She was on a path of self-discovery, and I was blocking her view of the sea. She said something like that, but less dramatic, over umbrella drinks beside the ocean, while the waves crashed against giant slabs of sun-washed concrete and a Jamaican wrecking crew took sledgehammer to walk next to the empty gazebo that was also going but didn’t know it yet…

The Citron Review

Corner Store and Dream of Alexandria

Nicole works the morning shift at the counter: pours coffee for the carpenters and landscapers, the mechanics and drivers, Fire and Police, the county road crew that has Hanover Avenue all backed up this morning. This guy in business attire walks in…

Diode Poetry Journal

The Exploding Heart Technique

When no one was looking, not even you,
she hit you with a dim mak, a touch of death, or
(don’t laugh) The Five Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique.

Cortland Review

Between Morristown and Maplewood and Withers Street, Next to the Greif Trucking Company

Above the coffee bean factory, she lived in a former warehouse. Her hands smelled of garlic, her lips tasted like gin. She cracked brown eggs into each other, splashed the bowl, cut over-ripe green figs balanced on her good leg. She ducked into the fridge and emerged halfway across the room with feta, a bruised peach, coffee pressed. She was a bright pirouette in just an apron…

Small Orange

Elegy for the Open Mic Host

In a glass building, on the corner of somewhere I won’t remember, hung a giant smoke-eating machine that loomed over the middle of the room. It looked like a black box recorder from the proportion perspective of ocean floor sand. We were the sand with our cheap, (yet priceless) guitars and handwritten poems and endless supply of Parliament Lights. And the black box didn’t seem to work or we ran it through paces. The room filled up with smoke like that Foyle’s War episode where no one could see anything, but someone swears they heard a gunshot and someone else cries out…

Bending Genres

Courtyard Goddess

His apartment was the cracked open door by the stairs. Twice now, the military had rung the doorbell which played chimes to the sound of London Bridge falling down, falling down, and twice, the apartment caretaker, Adel, had vouched for us; explained the suspicious away, prevented our arrest…

Hobo Camp Review

Silence at the Borderline Bar

A woman walks into the room with just-kissed lips, rendered bare. A man walks in after her, lips painted, a secondhand shade of gothic cinnamon. Those of us at the dank bar observe this clearly when they pass the well-lit open doorway leading to the kitchen. And what alerts us at the bar to the lipstick is the woman, striking, hair and clothes just askew, still fixing herself, though lips dulled in contrast to the rest of her sheen. Preening clown behind her, full of himself.

The Poet’s Grin

I10 Postcard, The Beginning End, Dream of Brooklyn, Poe, At Death

The bulbs of the motel sign here are the only working lights in this empty lot. No Vacancy reflects from the half-drained pool. Cold Moon; 75 degrees, December. The lobby smells vaguely familiar like dead mice in the wall. The manager says, they’re under construction. What was their Beirut 1982 stage is now Belfast circa ’83

Shrew Literary Zine

Renovation on Main, Seven Mile Coastline of Alexandria, Egypt

We walked the length of the corniche to the cafe for croissants, as we craved any semblance of leavened bread. Maximo sat outside in a metal chair against the grey brick of the building with his back against the broken city and damaged sky. His bald head glistened in the morning sun as he stared at the receding coastline and unforgiving sea…

Meow Meow Pow Pow Lit

Nancy, I love you, Begs Alice

Nancy, I do not know you, and could not place you at the apartment Christmas party I failed to attend last year. But Alice is begging for your love.

former cactus

Outside Heaven, and Elegy for the Funeral Director

We sat in the black hearse, body in tow, three wide: Jimmy, Kip and me. Jimmy Dangler called me, the slice of baloney between two halves of bread. And when he laughed even the coffin shook…

Mojave River Press and Review

Above the Old Cinema, Wily Sonoma Coast

He left the fire of her by the escape, down the immense metal staircase bolted to the brick building, which rattled and creaked with age. Hair still wet, in yesterday’s clothes, he waved to her standing behind the screen door…

Virga Magazine

Native American Studies with Former Protégée of Anais Nin

When I reached her, she suffered from some form of dementia and kept slipping in and out of time. This was on the Montclair University campus where the faux-Spanish architecture of the fine arts building hung over the hill…