Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

15 questions on the affliction of writing

How did you land your job as a writer?

It landed on me. I was discovered on facebook by a literary agent from Los Angeles who is a well known poet on the national scene. He asked me to come on his radio show, and then became my agent shortly thereafter. I had never put out so much as a chapbook when I was offered my first book deal. I had been promoting myself as a poet and had been vigorously blogging for about a year. My work had been published in several e-zines and journals previously. I had contributed human interest stories and photo essays to funeral service trade publications during my prior years as a mortician. Becoming an author came upon me as the fairy godmother came upon Cinderella.

What education do you have?

Two unrelated degrees. Biology and Mortuary Science.

How long have you been writing?

Since the 7th grade.

What steps did you follow in your profession leading up to being a writer?

I read everything I can get my hands on. Always have, always will. A writer must be an avid reader.

What kinds of tasks do you do on a typical day or in a typical week?

I paint, write, dance to music, walk my dog, love my children, teach preschoolers how to read, and drink fuck tons of bourbon.

What types of tasks do you spend most of your time doing?

*See above.

What do you like best about writing?

The purge. The demons leaving. The love swelling. The act of paying homage to the everyday.

What excites you most about being a writer?

Leaving my mind behind for my children.

What are some of the more difficult or frustrating parts of writing?

Most writers are assholes and most presses are charlatans misrepresenting themselves as publishers.

How does writing affect your lifestyle?

I may have mentioned this before, but I drink a lot of bourbon. This too may be blamed on being Southern.

What characteristics does an author need to have?

Be willing to write what they know. Have the balls to not hide their true feelings and words. To not drape themselves in academic snobbery, euphemisms, or cliché. Be willing to write like they have no mother. Be willing to never apply any other rules.

Do you usually work independently or as part of a team?

Writers are solitary creatures. We should always be kept in separate cages unless writing for Aaron Sorkin.

What types of decisions do you make?

To bleed, daily.

What advice can you give to a burgeoning writer?

Write. Write. Write. Don’t be a pussy.

What type of entry-level job offers the most learning opportunities?

Being a drunk. Being a waiter. Being an actor. Being a parent. Being a teacher. Being a collections agent. Being a telemarketer. Being a jizzmacher. Being a stripper. Being a crack whore. Being a stripper crack whore. Being a stripper crack whore paying her way through school. Being a mortician. Being Catholic. Being an atheist. Being human. Being American. Being alive. Being willing to die from writing.

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

brick wall band photo

in a parallel dimension
there exists
brick wall band photo
with both of us
the founding members
in it
wall leaning
full of rage
about to eat your drumsticks
or kill a motherfucker with them
and me
at your right
always having your back
with my guitar
looking like i’m about to fuck it
or maybe the current front man
because punks die
but we leave behind
the music

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

they’re playing our song

don’t sweat it pops
your saddle oxfords and summer polo hues
don’t get my doc martens
black wardrobe
and social rebukes

you missed out on punk

and you’re not supposed to understand my generation

i get it
you were busy

so forgive my frustration
with your shaking head

because you can’t feel my beat

explosions make me happy

i carry anger in a sequined clutch

my poems are mutant creations kept in jars

not all things require a delving investigation

no one has failed me
no one has failed you

so pin your analytical boutonniere
to the lapel of
your homecoming dance suit

and i’ll wear my wrist corsage of vengeance

we’ll shake hands in blessed concord

then smile until we puke

have some punch

i spiked it

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

hay and apples

sunday is my 36th birthday
so i find myself looking down
into my arms
why i’m still carrying this shit around

today is fucking friday
and fridays are for freedom
they’re for setting fire to people
who deserve a good burning

all my rotten wood is collected
moments of chocolate covered regret
soured creamy feelings
and behavior patterns more injurious
than self mutilation

the gas can in my hand

trusty zippo in the other
ready to take flight

your army will be driven into the sea

i will eat your war

i will eat your god beliefs

i will eat your evil

i will eat your rules

i will eat your academic snobbery

and still have time

to eat some pussy

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

five year plan

i’m 35 and growing
more militant by the day

5 year plan:

shave something shocking

on 40th birthday, raise punk rock army

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

a cosmos in two pairs of dirty jeans

before you think this selfish of me
please allow me to say this
is an unintentional fantasy

but i hope we die
sitting next to each other
on the A train
in vain

after our bills are paid
obligations met
beloved cats and unrelenting rats
given their milk
on which to feed

our eyes closed
my head resting on your shoulder
your glasses crooked
cheek nestled into my salt and pepper hair
legs crossed toward each other

a cosmos in two pairs of dirty jeans

because you are my only safe place
the only man who has ever cared for
or understood me
without the expectation
of pussy in return

jonathan livingston sea gull seraphim
hitching a rooftop ride above us
humming clash songs
for an eternity
or at least out
to the rockaways

this is holy

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

punk believer

when i 16
i was too busy playing house

graduating early from high school
so i could get a head start
on destroying my life
marrying imitation fathers
in search of heavenly normalcy

backed a moving truck up
to the childhood house
saying to mama and the deacons
it’s too late to start parenting now

what a goddamn idiot i was
but one does what one must to survive

twenty years later here i stand
my shit as together as it will ever be

teacher mortician mother madame poet

exposer of the world’s bullshit and glory
to my knowledge hungry sons

i stopped looking for god when i realized
it exists in the light of what makes us happy

so tonight i will venture out
after the house has gone to sleep
a flask buried deep within my heart
to find religion in music

a guitarist weeping
a drummer bleeding
a front man giving communion

and me
the punk believer
heels traded in for
strapped on
burgundy docs

to be baptized in sweat and bruises

no, i’m not an easy read

the only thing i’m proud of
are my fucking scars

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends


i notice the poorly obscured

leering beautifully
from beneath the sleeves

of his perfectly pressed uniform

amidst the sirens and lights

i say to the cop

as the window and the stereo roll down

who can drive slowly to rollins band?

he smiles and replies,

who can argue with that?

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

Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

what a poet endures

this evening
there is more to deny
than there is room
in my bourbon glass

it’s too cold to step out for a smoke

numbness still lives
a few towns over

but you can never say
you haven’t been told