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Afternoon on a Lake


We wrote poems in cigarette smoke,

or sex

as it ran down the side of a boat

intertwined in water

from a dammed-up lake,

forced to exist.


Ash singed the pages,

humid moonlight

that burned our hands

until we could not touch.

drops hit the glass surface,

coerced water rippled.


Debris floated in wet air,

forth and back

and back

we reached for pieces

as they dissolved

into rain.


Once, I Was Asked Why I Stayed (#1)


The necklace

around my neck


or curse words slipping


across a Pine-Sol floor

I should’ve cleaned better                                    

like dishes


slamming against a wall

the muzzle

chilling my temple

an empty freezer

expired chipped paint

over a patched hole


More Updates


OMGeeeez, I don’t pay enough attention to my website, or blogging. Recently, it’s seemed as though the plague descended upon me and no amount of antibiotics will treat it. Whining aside, I wish I had an excuse for not keeping my site updated.

If you follow my Facebook or Instagram, you’re aware that in addition to the ‘Sync’ series, I’m working on a separate novel, “Snowfall” due out next year as well. I posted a trailer here (Note: you should be able to click the word ‘here’ and it’ll take you to the video. I’m only saying because I think I’m cool now that I’ve mastered the ability to add ‘links’ to my blog) I’m excited for the challenge of publishing two polished, action-filled novels in 2017.

In other news, I entered my very first writing contest, Sudden Denouement’s divergent literature contest and won second place with a piece titled “Suburban Suicide”. More rewarding than actually winning was happening upon a site chalked full of amazing poetry. I’d recommend checking it out. You will not be disappointed– Promise! But all-in-all, what a humbling experience. Absolutely incredible and when they posted the top five, I read them. Fantastic, strong pieces of writing.

To be honest, I rarely submit pieces to anything. It’s not necessarily because I fear rejection, although I do to some extent. It’s because I question my work… a lot.

I write what I feel, how I feel and early on in life I was taught my instincts were off. It’s only now, I’m learning perhaps they were spot on that whole time and those telling me otherwise were determined to see me fail. Even as an adult, I receive passive aggressive messages on media platforms such as Facebook from voices of the past, attempting to censor me (Kinda desperate, huh?).

Everybody has a voice. Never let another person convince you otherwise, don’t ever believe it if someone scolds you because, “people will think you’re weird.” Weird is good. Different is good. Our world needs all kinds of ‘different’ and ‘weird’. So just go for it… you do you (this is my pep talk for all three people reading this).

Until Later! (And I promise it won’t be much later!! I’ll update soon!)


Childhood, Fragments


My first memory

was my dog dragging a dead rat into my bedroom.

Mom walked in

I played with my limp toy.

Its polished eye watched,

she scolded the pup.

Showered, I sat on dusty carpet and listened;

the owl clock above the sink.

Her cracked hands washed green dishes

while the metal walls of our trailer

trickled into my veins drop after


after drop.


As a Child, Words Hurt Worse Than Being Hit




I could still walk into that house and smell leather,

the sweet odor cracked into peach wall paper

that closed in on my body

until I vomited fields of soy beans.

Outside of the rows,

I’d pick wild berries.

An almanac cautioned

about Indian strawberries–

I feared that as the juice dripped

down my hollow mouth,

I’d surely die.

God didn’t want kids like


Years passed.

I sat on a train in New York

where I read a columnist

who declared that just because

consumption of a wild berry is

not recommended,

that does not indicate that the


contains poison.


A Sunday Drive Through Kansas



The road was a flat sheet,

a Nascar announcer’s voice

between waves of static. Corn,

shriveled from unseasonable drought,

I waved at the oil wells we passed

and counted them through the window


crunched with brown grass as I laid

in a ditch, among fields of broken glass

and found the station wagon,

now upside down, Garth Brooks-

from out of nowhere

another field of soybeans dried


until the following week when it rained

and our crops drowned.

Grandma told us

next summer we’d replant tomatoes.

That fall,

I pulled sharp slivers out of my hair

piece after piece.