I’m pleased once again (4th time!) to say my work is published on The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, the oldest literary magazine on the web. Click here to read my work and click here to read the entire issue. You won’t be sorry. Continue reading Dead Mules Talk Plenty
Photo by Infrogmation Varmint Someone stole Uncle Lionel’s bass drum. It was resting in the courtyard of a bar on Frenchman Street next to a palmetto palm under the moonlight . Uncle Lionel was inside slaking his thirst with a cold draft Dixie bought with tips from anonymous tourists and devoted locals. The word went out in the humid New Orleans night, wafting from bar to bar on the notes of wailing saxophones and indignant trumpets. Someone stole Uncle Lionel’s bass drum. The news hit the streets and ran on a second line of lightening, traveling on the dancing feet … Continue reading RIP Uncle Lionel
She eats words and peanut butter cups at midnight, orange and brown wrappers and green-lined papers lie scattered across soft white solitary sheets, thoughts in bubbles float over her head and burst – pop! – before she can put them to paper. The silky smooth chocolate lingers on her tongue, a reminder of solid things. Continue reading Illusive and Familiar
On Delaronde street sweat runs beneath 200 year old oaks and between breasts, over gnarly roots and down the curve of a belly. Words of love, a melody in French, weave through the plumbago screen hiding a pristine white gallery and wafts on down the street, fading into the distant sounds of river traffic. Laughter crackles with the clink of glasses leaking from behind wrought iron, amid the slightly rustling palmettos. Fans and pages turn, sun tanned legs stretch out. The day dissolves into evening. Time to light the candles and pour the wine. _____________________________________ Shared on dVerse Poets Pub. … Continue reading Another Day On Delaronde
In my sorrowful dreams I turned to you. Between sleep and consciousness your face appeared, your hands soothed just like they did long ago. I kissed your cheek with the salt of my tears and you were there in my bones on this lonesome moonless night, wrapping me in memory and comfort. Continue reading Nocturnal Hunger
Footsteps through an arid town, dreams lost by one misstep. A blue Chevy truck travels a thousand miles where kudzu grows virulent in secret places swallowing white sparkling sand. Dunes shift, foliage grows, lives move on. Continue reading South From Southwest
life’s flow is dropping blue-veined eyelids with lashes of cobwebs against a face so still milky skin smooth as marble reveals cheekbones chisled in sharp relief silver hair as fine as silk fans over a cloud a body levitating between earth and eternity Continue reading In Limbo
The crows call out from their perch on a crumbling cupola, looking down with their beady, suspicious eyes, puffing their feathers out as if shrugging off my stare. They call us out, these harbingers of prophecy and revelation. Secrets are never hidden when viewed from above, but carried on wings of distortion and spread by sharp, cutting tongues. Continue reading Vigilence
It gave her a weird thrill, his hands were shaped like strawberries, emergency lights barely blinked at the voice in her ear sliding down her throat all the way to the base, small talk about a storm brewing in the Gulf, surrounded by cypress trees and lily padded bayous, a weathered table by the window, phantom picnics interrupted. Obsession probably killed her; her eyes were blank, the world forgotten. _____________________________________ Shared on dVerse Poets Pub. Continue reading One Friday In August
Sometimes you talk, sometimes you don’t, sometimes you want to but can’t. You watch the numbers on all the machines that are supporting her life, you note them and compare them to the numbers from the day before, the week before and the month before. You wash her face, lubricate her lips and wait for the few precious seconds she opens her eyes and wonder if it’s just a reflex or a reaction to your voice. You lotion up her hands and feet then rotate them and stretch out her fingers. You leave the room after the 30 minute visiting … Continue reading It’s the Waiting That Kills You
