Wednesday, February 8, 2012


Mold is forming on the corners of the oil painting. It's a black meets green flirts with white kind of color seeping off the surrounding wooden frame. It's a picture of a woman, or perhaps a girl, smiling at the artist and resting lily white hands on a plaid skirt. It's art in the way an aspiring child painter might give a parent as a gift: beautiful in its attempt, but lacking in any sort of true vision. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and a pink oval face resting on an elongated neck. There is an illegible signature at the bottom right of the painting scrawled in black strokes. Cracks are forming on the grey background and flaking away in the slightest breeze. A gray, lazy light illuminates the painting from a cracked skylight above. Dust motes float through the air, riding slight currents.

Sam looks at the painting, her head tilted to the side. Loose strands of unwashed, oily blonde hair fall past her slender shoulders. She bites her bottom lip, beginning to form an objective opinion.

She loves it as much as she hates it.

Thursday, August 11, 2011

"I Think All The Time About Us Together"

To my seed and tree, without you both, I wouldn't be standing here.

"I Think All The Time About Us"

You wake up one day and realize, perhaps, something is changing. Or maybe, something has been changing for ages, but its been subtle - if a little sloppy. But then, change is never ever pretty. It's ugly and painful and destructively revealing. Change should never be easy, because then, it's not really change at all.

You wake up one day and see your reflection in a mirror. You look and it's not just a casual glance. Your eyes linger and you see you for what you really are. You see all the imperfections - the pours and scars and freckles and moles and wrinkles. You see you as you. You. No, it's not pretty, but at least it's the truth. And the truth may keep you awake at night, and it may make you sick, but when you do finally sleep, at least you know there is no more running away.

And. . . .

And you wake up one day and it's different than the last. It's different than the last 10, 220 days. And a weight rolls off and crashes and shatters.

And you wake up one day and realize the weight keeping you grounded is made of doubt and second guess and denial and fear and excuses and self told lies.

"Tell me something you don't want to tell me," he says.

"I don't want to share you," she says. "I don't want any other lips on yours, or skin or fingers or breath."

And you wake up one day and there is a reflection, but it's not your own. There's a resemblance, to be sure. It's in the shape of the skull, in the space between her eyebrows and hairline. It's in her cheeks and the way she smiles. It's her her teeth and in her bones. It's in every artery, arteriole, and capillary. It's in her blood. It's in her thoughts and actions and movements.

"I'm pregnant," she said, almost a decade past.

A phone is ringing and nobody answers. It rings and rings and rings and rings against empty walls somewhere in the Midwest.

The moon is almost full and this August night feels like September.
Jogging in the morning with the pooch. No better way to start a brand new day. Brooklyn, I love you.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011


She's always had dark hair falling past slender shoulders in loose curls. She has eyes as cold and clear as morning skies. Her skin is light - sometimes coffee, sometimes milk. Her breasts fit in my palms. Her sides are smooth, save for the subtle rises of ribs and falls of intercostal spaces. Between her legs is a dark, close-cut dark shadow. Sometimes she is on top. Sometimes, she's below. But her eyes are always on me - they see through me - and her semi-full pink lips are curved upward at the edges, smiling. She's warm to the touch always, whether white winter or black night. She sleeps on her side and occasionally snores. She has slender fingers, and they run through my chest hair. My lady of slumber always smiles. She is strong, and sturdy, and cynical and classy and slutty and loyal and funny and pretty and ... mine. My maiden waits for me under a full moon, where the waves of dreams meet the shore of waking. She's always been there, waiting, as I do.

Friday, February 11, 2011

Turning Blue On A February For You

Her pink skin against plaid bedsheets. Sudden twitches and jerks while she sleeps.

A stifled moan escapes her lips.

Its cold out, of that there is no doubt.

We're stuck somewhere in January. Glass falls and collects on concrete in this town time forgot.

Gray skies stretch and all we see is red.

The bed covers hold heat and her fingers run across tired skin.

Sudden impulses cause winces, and it would be a lie if I didn't smile.

Sunday, December 5, 2010