Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

as you arrange dead flowers

i’ve painted all of it
on the ceiling of the library dome in alexandria
to study the profane scope

better understanding the history
the higher i ascend
through falling ashes

this is what i know

my interpretation of the pattern

you only acknowledge the sacred
as you seek to destroy it

you’re sick

you take such pride in your trophies
heads mounted on the wall
all wearing your mother’s pearls

the manner in which your
opossum eyes delight
in fresh kill

wax romantic about your bloody left hand
as you arrange dead flowers

i’m impervious ever since
you gouged out my ability
to experience pathos

Short Stories Uncategorized

Way stalky, as opposed to regular stalky…

Oh, creepy postman, how has it come to this? It began with your handshake, which held on too long, and attempted to draw me toward you. Yes, how you want to reel me in to your mid-sixties mid life crisis, so you have someone to cook for you, clean your too-much-like-the-show- Dallas-palace, and cook for you odd children. I want you know that the red hair dye, so wrong for you it turns your hair purple, frightens the good people of the town. Your overly attentive parcel delivery, fecund with insistence that I call you if I ever need anything, absolutely anything, like your old dick in my mouth, is redefining the concept of southern hospitality. The coup de grace was the little unnecessary postal customer form, suddenly requesting my phone number, at the risk of losing my delivery service, complete with a personal note to comply. So, I filled out your bullshit ploy. In the space twice circled, where you wanted my phone number, I wrote the words, “not applicable.” I would have been so happy to offer up the information, were it not for that lecherous, perversion in your eyes when you’re sticking your hand in my box.