analysis baseball writing coffee death mourning papyrus poetry rituals Uncategorized


there’s a reading chair

i won’t allow to die

propped up with

an old Royal Typewriter case

where i drift off

dreaming unafraid

of slow-moving tornadoes

& your whispering face

weighing scientifically

which is more destructive


you’re haunting me

as promised

but not so much i feel put upon

which i know

you would hate

(artwork by Stephen Mackey)


the devil you know

there you are
right on cue
as if you personally orchestrated
my having been born
in September
the devil you know
swelling and morphing
through my dreams
your face changing
wearing various masks
such grand theatre
i weep
destroy my sheets
crying out in the night
reddest blood flowing
into marzipan rivers
oh my dear
how beautifully we suffer
this tether
my soul was lost
in an apple orchard
faded to ether


i dream salvador dali

still breathing

entrails sewn

to the wall

of imposter submarines

art gallery of the grotesque

i dream salvador dali

billie holiday licking orchids

cursing her mother

christmas ornaments thrown

into the washing machine

gentle cycle please

someone is vacuuming

as the street narrows

to a vanishing point

my car won’t make it

to your apartment

i didn’t buy his pirogi

a raven haired murderess

wearing red lipstick

is black ribbon hanging candles

and crystalline skulls

from a street lit

ghetto tree 

purgatory in cincinnati



Americana behavior nightmares poetry

at night

it is not my place

to anguish on his behalf

but i do

i fear he lies awake at night

thinking his life

is someone else’s dream

and wondering

if they are enjoying it

art books childhood ecology education Jazz Music nature poetry Short Stories sociology Urban Legends writing

life is but a dream


Well, I guess we were due another one of these, so here goes: I had another dream about you last night. The third in the five years we have known each other. The first was your grandfather on the porch, the second was about coming to see you teach with a drum kit in the lecture hall, and now this one. I don’t often dream about people who exist in my real world, nor are they typically as vivid as this dream was. I don’t often recall my dreams, so when I have one still ringing a bell this loudly when I wake, I take heed. This week has been so absurd, I haven’t been paying much attention to my radar regarding anything, as lately it seems the world has gone mad.

I’m writing to you about it, because I want to get it on paper, but also due to the fact that each time I have had a dream regarding you, I’ve been left with this feeling like I’m supposed to tell you about it. I don’t subscribe to any supernatural beliefs, but I do know that I’m a bit more tapped into the whims of the universe than most, so take from it what you will.

You came to visit me at my home on a crisp, sunny autumn morning. In the dream, my house was sitting on the woodsy plot of land where my childhood home was in Clermont County, beside a gently flowing stream. The exterior of the house was a grand Victorian with a beautiful filigreed front porch. I had Indian corn hanging on the dark carved front door and pumpkins lining the steps leading up to it. The interior of the house was identical to the modern suburban behemoth I currently occupy on the edge of Landen. The only difference was the amount of lamps. There were lamps of all sorts sitting everywhere. Lamps where lamps shouldn’t be, and if you spotted one that wasn’t turned on as I gave you a tour of the house, you took the liberty of turning it on for me. Tiffany lamps, research lamps, magnifying lamps, and the green glass domed sort you once saw in law offices and libraries. All of them were turned on. It was magnificent. The dream was clearly trying to illuminate something.

I asked you if I could hang up this handsome brown leather waist coat you were wearing, but you didn’t want to trouble me, so you hung it over the back of your chair, then sat down. I offered you coffee as I took the chair beside you, and you accepted. We then heard coffee beans grinding in the kitchen, then the coffee appeared before us in tea cups and saucers on the small round antique table between the two chairs.

We seemed to be in a celebratory mode. We had news to share. We had both just had new books published, which we exchanged signed copies of happily. You asked me to put Dave Brubeck on my Victrola and you used the word “Victrola.” I smiled in agreement, and the record immediately began to play without my getting up. The strains of Le Souk filled the room as we proceeded to laugh and engage in catching each other up on recent events in our lives.

After we were done with coffee you asked to view my book collection. We ran up the steps together the way small children do, as if they’ve been informed magic awaits them if they are but willing to go find it. We poured through the shelves together. You were mesmerized by the size of the collection, but also by how similar my library was to your own. We pulled our favorites down and stacked them, sitting on the floor together to look over them like two children playing with Hot Wheels or army men. I showed you all the rarities, antiquities, things you had never seen in my old embalming texts which blew your fucking mind. We shelved everything back as it was when we had our fill.

As we came back down the steps, one of my ex-husbands was sitting at the dining room table drunk and ranting. We ran him off and you told me I should better secure my doggy door so unwanted vermin could not get inside the house. You put the coat back on over the blue button-down shirt and tie you were wearing and I showed you outside. It was at that moment you complimented me on the red cowgirl boots I was wearing with my 1950’s era dress. You said I reminded you of Sylvia Plath if she had gone on living happily. We walked over to the creek to have a look at the water. We then made our way back to the driveway where your car was parked beside mine. You were driving a pale yellow Chevy Citation in mint condition. We laughed at our old cars and our unwillingness to part with anything that had been so loyal. We hugged and said our goodbyes. I turned my head for a moment toward the late afternoon sky, and when I looked back down, you and your car had vanished silently. I walked back up onto the porch.

The next moment I was awake. I brewed my Sunday morning coffee, slid Brubeck into my shelf system cd player, and began to type you this letter.

With Love,


Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

for thinking that my love could hold you

last night
i dreamed of willie nelson

we were on the paint peeled veranda
of a dilapidated southern plantation

talking the morning away
as country people are given to do

drinking fresh squeezed
orange juice
over the bones of kentucky colonels

a wild turkey bottle
crying fowl
beneath our rocking chairs

i stood
pushing through the screen door
in my white sun dress
telling him i had designs on frying him
some eggs and sausage
scratch biscuits n’ pepper gravy
grease being the best hangover cure

he responded with an
a-men and a tip of his hat

as i took a rolling pin
over flour sprinkled dough
the notes began to float into the kitchen

i heard him picking the strings of his guitar

i’m crazy
crazy for thinkin’
that my love
could hold you

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

cinderella’s castle is on fire

monday morning
is what must be done
the drudgery of bones ground
for the sake of the children
the weight of obligation
and remaining alive
cinderella’s castle is on fire
and yet
i’m too fearful of hepatitis and needles
to allow writing to be the death of me

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

ignoring a fellini film

there was no point to the dream
other than you

sitting beside me in a darkened theatre
our arms entwined elbows to fingertips
ignoring a fellini film

caterpillars and stars deciding for us
the setting should be a bedroom

blue velvet seats became
lush green sheets

the rest was all the red of your beard
desperate kisses
and what it would be to fall asleep
after having made love to you

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

it begins with a waiting black screen

then becomes that dream
where your first reel image
is a fire eyed semi-truck

bearing down on you
twenty feet away from your windshield
hell bent into a head on collision
with your glass blown psyche

it’s not a metal wheeled monster at all

it’s a man
and the impact of him

leaves nothing behind

but one spiked high heel
a little black book
and a stack of love letters

burning on a highway
falling into the sea

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

i may not be drunk enough to write this

i may not be drunk enough to write this

but as you know
afflicted with the pen
are concerned

there comes a point
you no longer have a choice

that time came tonight
when the music came on all by itself

a ghostly moment alone in the dining room
when lou reed’s voice began to sing
turn to me
from an untouched stereo

the depth of your sadness overwhelmed me
and i felt myself failing you so

i must resist every possible cliche when i say

you punk son of a bitch
counting your curses

the past is indestructible

i’m glad you never made it

i’m happy your kick ass band
was looking east
as culture crawled west

because you would be dead now
and i never would have known you

i wouldn’t have kept writing
and i’d be long gone too

when i consider all that you are

it staggers me to think
how many beautiful things
wouldn’t exist