Writings
Current Events
Inspired by a journalist friend, and our talks after she interviewed Newtown survivors
published in: Perception Syracuse, and Prologue NJ
From a window to a life of mirrors reflects a running news ticker.
It’s breaking out the whistles, tearing nails, and grinding teeth.
Lost in racing beats … underneath a pile up on U.S. one-oh-three.
Another night of breathing hours bleeding
tick, tick, tick before me like
the greater hand of a plastic Grandfather clock.
Creak and churn a chime until
I draw the blinds to stop the light
and block the birds that chirp, chirp, chirp.
Forever chime for, “Mother Gina,
driven to veer right into another lane,
If she was driving nine and then—well, eight were under seven.
that make five are six feet deep.
A chime for “Father John, arrested twenty years too late.
child shrinks conduct their studies, as
the church declined to speak.”
And chime for “nineteen coffins,
under dirt below the prayers of Hands Across America.”
Let’s cut to shots of mourning babies,
John, who’ve lived enough to know the clock
to moms and dads who made the watch
to me who makes it tick.
A chime for ads of discounted knives.
A Grandfather clock floating under the sea.
News ticker, news ticker, would you tick for me?
The producers convened: I’m not cut out for TV.
Echoes of Omar Khayyam
Khayyam's writings and underage drinking mesh well together
published in: prologue
"Ah … make the most of what we yet may spend –
before we too into Dust Descend.”
Words trickling echoes of a destined end,
as Khayyam echoes of death
and life, through my rose-colored fixtures
set to seconds of life
and death – all everlasting and transient tonight.
For death is a fixture neither of steel nor stone.
It’s sand. So let the dust descend slowly and
pray to the grain and the grain to be given.
Living in seconds worth minute made
days turned awry.
Eternity's tragedy. Rye is bliss.
Los Aullidos De Los Lobos
Here's a poem about being a millennial because the world needs more of those.
(originally written in Spanish so the translation's a bit rough)
The howling of the wolves
and the strength of the wind
is silenced—
for the adolescent steals
the voice of nature.
It’s December—
the end for the millennials—
when all in excess
live freely and deadly.
Where is the line drawn
in ink instead of
blood? Yet we all use
these gilded brushes and
mask ourselves in red
passions.
The life of an adolescent
is like a transient
sunset—large and
grand—but shrouded
in a fogged and fading
reality.
Los aullidos de los lobos
y la fuerza del viento
hacen un silencio—
porque el adolescente se robó
la voz de la naturaleza.
Es diciembre—
al final de los milenarios—
cuando todos en exceso
viven libres y mortalmente.
¿Dónde está la línea elaborada
en tinta en lugar de
sangre? Pero todos usamos
cepillos dorados y nos
enmascaramos en pasiones
rojas.
La vida adolescente
es como una puesta de
sol transitorio—grande y
magnifico—pero envuelto
en una realidad empañada
y desvanecimiento.