Miscellaneous Writings and Musings


A genie and her rock band

(Novel and Short Stories)

Steal Tomorrow

Steal Tomorrow
Murder, Mystery, First Love, and the End of the World

(Novel and Short Stories)

My Books and Stories

My Books and Stories
Where to Buy, Read, Download

Tabula Rasa

I would be a blank slate,
stripped of memory,
(stripped of you)
my thoughts wiped clean
with a little discernment.

Rid of recollection,
no need to fear
the sticks and stones
that break my bones
break my heart
break my mind;
remembrances that polarize
and become identity
all too soon
(not soon enough)

Perhaps I'll cast my lot with sinners
or selflessly side with angels.
More likely I'll put a posey in my pocket,
clench a clover in my fist,
and hope for the best.

So take me to the river of forgetting.
Build the bonfire high.
Tonight I'll cast remembrance 
to the flames,
and after mark my face
with the ashes that remain.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.


In my heart.
On my mind.
The you I wish you were.

How many years
can fantasies live?
They need special feeding, you know.

of something
good as gold,
but not as bright;
that isn't love.

We crossed a line
played the game
at any cost,
ignored the signs
and miners' birds.
They're here to sing, not die.

Our minds are now oceans apart.
(older, hopefully wiser)
The illusions of youth
weren't yours to give
or mine to keep,
and so I did my best
to give them up.

But even after 
the fuss and fury,
the vows broken,
and promises whispered
in empty rooms,
the you I wish you were 
still lives on my heart
and in my mind.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

New Flash Fiction

New Jazz Gang flash fiction: Make a Wish


Quirky, troublesome saint,
thrust into my life by circumstance.
Edge of madness.
Edge of life.
Existing on a knife blade
where we slip and fall.

All the kings horses and all the kings men.

Cut your wrists.
Cut and run.
Cut your teeth on structure.
Plant hope in shifting sands.
Put everything in its in place:
Order from confusion. 

All the best saints first know pain.

Answer the dreams
of the fortunate few
while searching the soul's pasture
for signals.
Every meandering trail
ends in a dismal spot.

All roads lead to now.

We didn't need a crystal ball
to know where this would end:
(tablets ropes bullets)
They broke your locks
for one last time,
and you rose on the fifth day.

Canonized: perfect at last.

The young get hagiographies.
You're an unreliable specialty saint
who will not answer prayers.
But you left some useful memos.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl and Sunday Scribblings 2.


Should I let things stay unspoken
and in silence turn away?
As you say.
As you wish.
Clasp cold fingers
across my lips
and dare me not to speak.

But I invoke your name,
pray to you
in troubled times.
I kneel before your altar
and read your tattered works.
I do as you would do,
but not as you have done.

You would have me
bury your memory,
and scour your footprints clean.
But instead I trace the etchings,
take my knife
and carve them deep.

Oh mad genius,
you are legend.

En memoria de VAM, falleció 4 marzo 2014.