i am more than the words i speak or write. more than what you see. i am the unseen and unheard ends of the spectrum.
I want to tell you a story about a short stout woman who lived on the island of Lemnos in the Aegean Sea. She fished
i am unfurled unwrapped by life’s hardships, joys and mysteries. without understanding why, i have lived without a name. Unfurl
i’ve decided that i don’t want to write, not with my hands anyway. i want to think words onto paper and screens and leaves and
i am the stream… of consciousness. it is 2:38pm, monday, the In The Beginning day of the week august 14. twenty seventeen, whatever that means
i will save words for you. bottled and pickled words for you. then feed you synonyms of me, so you will always remember my taste.
I had a satchel filled with poems that I tossed into the sea. I wrote them on tiny circles and squares and rectangles woven with
I spilled ink across the blank pages of my notebook. It was then that I decided to write stories with my fingers.
The words spill from my pen, blood red, no longer wanting to be ink, but to be life. The words follow me into my dreams.
The words leave, drifting atop my misconceptions. I am looking backwards. Why did we come here? Was it only to see if being human was
In the space of memory resides the fence we stand atop, teetering on the edge between hard ground and water. In that space we remember
Your lies won’t save you from death. You will die anyway. Death is the great truth teller. When it comes, all you will know in
The silken network of threads thin inside me; those webs that stick to everything that I am. They thin, inch by inch, but strengthen, holding
i am split apart, opened wide like the Nile and equally as filled with memories of life and death and history flowing through ancient cities.
The Spring 2017 issue of Goddard College’s peer-reviewed literary journal, The Pitkin Review, has arrived in the mail! My story, The Highway, is looking mighty
I have an edible lover. We intertwine, this lover and I. We meld and spill like a waterfall into each other. We become…
Strong, sturdy hips receive hungry thrusts. Authentic sex is not for the weak. Fainting hearts are not welcome here. Moans crescendo, vibrating leaves and rippling
If one day you desire to find me, don’t look for me here. Search for me in the quiet space, that place where only you
The clouds interlace fingers seeking prayer, an impassioned supplication to the un-gods. They spread across skies gathering stories of un-time, spaces inside cycles that collect
we are here to see the impossible sometimes through the night other times through the rain we must see inside self see inside the places