I started writing a few years ago. I didn’t start writing out of love for something or someone. In fact, I started writing out of anger.
Whirlwind
Although I’m No Geologist; Blackout Lust; Crossing a Bridge; Fugitive; I Feel a Tremendous Peace
Here I am
stuck forever, baby,
in your teary basalt eyes.
I Can’t Remember the Kind Nuns, First Grade, Fourth Grade, Eighth Grade, Age 38
One day I ran away
from school, down a long
hall of doors closed.
Sun shining, first bridge was
walking distance, no plan after.
anomalies in the nuclear degree;
I rest my forehead against vibrating window glass.
It was hard to look past the glare of city lights or
the fog of warm breath
but life bleeds through its filters and forced me to watch.
Playing the Fix (chapter three excerpt)
“Mason.” His voice crackled through the receiver. “What’s the word, my man? I knew you’d be looking to groove.” Loud bass music in the background. He was somewhere on the outskirts, maybe a bathroom stall, I presumed, of an evening pool party, undoubtedly swimming in vices.
L’Attesa (The Wait, A Covid-19 Story)
She’s still not picking up the phone. What could have happened? Would it even be possible to get seriously ill less than twenty-four hours after exposure? But what if she caught something earlier in the week, when we walked past that man who clearly had a bad cold? Or when she opened the door to sign the receipt for a package she got in the mail? I’m getting nervous.