Until I Forget [Poem]

It has become a series Round and round I spin like a bronze clock Until I am dizzy And there are no more answers

First Date [Short Story]

She looked nice on the dating site. A little bit mousy, but nice. She had a shy smile. But her lips were closed. I wonder if I should wear the brown jacket or the blue. Mother says the blue looks more professional. Mother! My god. What will Penelope think when she finds out I live with my mother? I'm thirty-eight freaking years old ferchrissake! Maybe I could say my mother lives with me. Yeah. That sounds a little better. Okay, it's the old family house. But still.

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It’s Not That Simple [Short Story]

But it’s not that simple. No, it never is.

Farming Life [Poetry]

A white farmhouse well back from the road: a large grey dog dozes on a long wooden veranda at the feet of a young boy plucking on a dulcimer; the leathery face of his mother appears briefly in the kitchen window; and, off in the distance, his father and tractor dig furrows in the land.

Time Past [Poetry]

Love made by melding cuts, a near seizure only subsiding as if to prolong, prolong the rise again…

The Group [Short Story]

“First of all, I am in awe sitting among Holocaust Survivors who made and actually endured history.    No teacher anywhere can truly teach what all of you in this room know from first-hand and tragic circumstances.”

Elegy [Poem]

We’ve come together under an old tree, We’ll walk for a while together alone, Into the far distance until we come to a lonely seashore, We’ll hop on our canoe and row for a while alone...

Thread of Thought [Creative Non-Fiction]

Listen to the voice speaking solely, signaling itself as unique, de-encapsulating itself from the magma of interwoven thoughts. The only difference between the voice and the magma is this peculiar persistency, this wish for continuity. Not yet continuity. Just an inclination, a bias, as for dust tending to become lint—assemblages of matter, inconsistent and tiny, wanting to stick together if precariously. Listen to the voice and its pretense of lead-taking, its thirst for authority. Authorship as a claim to responsibility. Claim to personality. Right to vote, though no right of birth can be proved yet. No citizenship. Listen to the arrogance of the voice in spite of its chronic weakness—it will be erased, dissipated, if I simply turn the other way. Listen well because the voice is thin, because lint is volatile.

Scars [Short Story]

My sleeve drops ever so slightly, showing off my battle wound. An almost skin colored tone scar, thicker than blood, that stretches onward and onward, starting from the tip of my palm and ending...