Outlaw Country

“Outlaw Country,” an excerpt from my novel, None So Distant, published in Spare Parts Literary Magazine as part of their From the Desk series:

Reports of fringy lore on lost highways. Point-counterpoint in a twangy battle of wills. Stay tuned.

       I am not going anywhere. There is nowhere to go. Someone took a picture of me, once, whenever, just like this—A girl standing on the highway, packed suitcase, waiting, hoping, or, not waiting, not hoping … pictures lie in ten thousand different ways.

       In that scene, I will always be there, here, the side of the highway, and every person that lays eyes on me will superimpose a story, I am imagination’s text and frozen asset, I am the photo that makes you want to believe in eternity as an irregular verb.

       I am not going anywhere, yet if you are not going anywhere eternally, is that the trip? Is that the action? The motion? The odyssey? Eternity, even as an irregular verb, is subject to context.

Read full piece here.
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Won’t You Be My Neighbor?

And on the eighth day, unseasonably warm,

the hounds basking in hell,

modeling balmy, crotch-rot bikinis in Gilead,

called out—

Please, God, let our leader

mirror starkly our deepest fears and shadows,

let him be as I, for I

am the candle’s guttering, green light,

advancing the dark to

restore the carcinogenic appetite

and capital cause of cannibalism—

P.S. If you see your mother’s severed limb

in my mouth, please forgive my

obscene eating habits.

Zombies are raised,

and not born,

as I’m sure you already know.

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Metamorphosis Variations

My fiction piece, “Metamorphosis Variations” (inspired by the first sentence of Franz Kafka’s “The Metamorphosis”) now appearing in 3:AM magazine. Excerpt below:

As I awoke one morning, from a night of discarded syringes and cough syrup, I found myself transformed into a woman dreaming she had been transformed into a scream. She, meaning I, awoke, the taste of mercury teasing my tongue, nerve-endings tuned to the residue of the scream I had been: the dead with polyphonous voices.

When the trembling in my legs quieted down, I swung them over the side of the bed, planted my bare feet onto the carpet, and stared at toenails painted faded calico. In staring, with my head bowed down, my hair, a sleep-warmed autumn, fell to either side of my jawline. I knew that in order to return to my pre-dream-state—I was a man of some sort, I think—I would have to pass through another scream, to release something primordial, a catch of hard existential candy lodged in my larynx. I would have to feel myself woman.

God, a plastic surgeon wearing a false mustache and dark glasses, raised her scalpel, and told me: Not all screams are created equal. Then she laughed, the blade moving swiftly.

Read the full story here.
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Conjugal

Hoarfrost mingling

with spring dew–

Hunger, sated to bloom.

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Alone-In

She grew infintely wet,

a throbbing void and pulsing slate

of Braille and intent–

subletting, by touch,

urgent spells of hunger

to a silent fast.

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Edie, Interrupted

Splitting images,
resurrection on a loop–
Stripping for heaven.

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The Menken

She, the Menken,
Byronic in flame
and force, mastered
the art of social media
long before technology caught up,
selling the illusion
of a man/
woman
bound naked to a horse;
she, the salacious Mazeppa,
incited a modern storm,
long before the 20th century caught up.

Adah Isaacs Menken, actress, poet, painter, 1835-1868

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Dietrich in Heaven

My spoken word piece, “Dietrich in Heaven” is now live in the Open Mic section of New Pop Lit, a publication whose mission is to fuse pop writing with the literary, creating a new hybrid.

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Meaning of the Mob

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To the Lighthouse

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