Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

drowning alice

only two things in my sphere
are meticulously kept

my sock drawer
and my book shelves

the socks are a fetish
but the book collection
is an archive of my life

i’ve lost count of the numbers
but it’s more than a thousand

volumes lining the walls
with secrets and keepsakes tucked inside

photographs, autographs
playbills, museum pamphlets,
bits of painted canvas cut into bookmarks,
pressed flowers
and prayer cards

i had finished reading a book overnight
so there i sat before my altar once again
seeking an instrument of destruction

that’s when i heard gertrude stein mumbling
about tender buttons
objects, food, and rooms analyzed
on the third shelf down
two partitions from the right

it’s a copy acquired from a used bookstore
i like to think of it as a means of rescue

i discovered this particular book
was originally sold
at the miami university of oxford’s
student book store

to my delight i see
the entire volume is filled
with painstaking highlights
in blue, green, and orange
and droll, unprofound notes
angrily scribbled in the margins

this student truly hated a run on sentence
it messed with his mind
breaking those rules
prose poetry just didn’t suit this kid
i knew it was a “him” because the commentary and hand writing were
distinctly male in nature

he hated this book
he hated dikey gertrude stein

but the real kick in the taint came
when i saw he had scratched
the professor’s name
the section number
and the course
inside the front cover

the name of a professor
i had quite recently fucked
with the same enthusiasm
as this downtrodden student
who had taken his class

henry j. fate, PhD

a torrent of life-coming-full-circle-laughter
rose to my office rafters

drowning alice b. toklas

romantic notions of dying in paris in 1946

the thoughts of impotent readers

and a century of useless literary discourse

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

high enough to see

you hold still
while i paint
a degas green upon your face

opium den pedestal placed
red blood cells floating
in absinthe swollen disgrace
our clothing disintegrated in the corner

i open my eyes to ask you,

“how long have we been in this room, my love?”

you pull me onto your hips
causing me to rise into a moan

high enough to see
through the window
paris is no longer burning

poetry Short Stories Uncategorized

wednesday afternoon english muffin saga before yoga

she returns

to the victorian kitchen with omnipresent windows

glowing white

to place the nearly consumed and

nearly iced pellegrino and lime

upon the mismatched beautiful table


he follows her

past the foyer of bicycles

through johnny cash’s voice

down the hall of

paleolithic plants, parisienne cat paintings,

and portraits of glorious youth


the gracious host in him offers her a muffin


she smiles but declines

choosing instead to wax romantic about

the nooks and crannies


he tells her he loves

the way she says nooks and crannies


they devour each other using only the eyes


she observes the refrigerator gallery display

pictures hotlines art business cards

declaring there is much to be learned

from a person’s fridge magnets


remembering the day

he noticed the little pink bows on her bra straps

sticking out of her blouse adorning her shoulders

in the front window of the bistro

making them the loveliest dining mannequin couple

on ludlow street


leaning against the sink to read the poetry he writes

on the backsplash tiles

as he offers her another muffin


this one glistening with fats


butter and cream cheese


she tells him grinning wickedly

that’s too many things from an animal

on one muffin


while looking up

admiring the mobile of bones stones acorns

sticks and feathers


from the kitchen chandelier


she tells him of her fondness of squirrel berets


he adjusts them slyly on the string and tells her straight-faced

it’s actually a barometer


she turns on her heel and walks out of the kitchen


and they laugh

poetry Uncategorized

paris is for lovers






willing to



cheek pressed into cheek

to the life of

a tango

to bother



perpetually unhappy






cha cha cha