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

Just Another Job

Place of memories and laughter.
Now the wind’s home.
Someone’s pride,
a dream come true,
soon just another job:
A bulldozer driver’s paycheck.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2.


I would rid myself of you:
empty head
empty heart
empty veins
Bloodless, cold as granite,
and as fearless.

But flesh is fragile,
mind is weak.
Resolutions made
at noontime
will come to naught
before the sun goes down.

No names for what I feel.
No words can give it weight.
But still I try to chart this out
make a table:
write a list
draw a map to guide me
through the howling darkness
to a place
where no vestigial ghosts
of memory
rob my soul.

Oh do not think of me
nor speak my name,
lest I come come full circle
and love you once again.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.


Now we all evolve,
transform into
the Other.

Looking high,
seeking low,
water finds its level.


Oh, don’t stand there
feigning innocence
you’ve never known.
Sober as a judge.
Judge me not.
Judge my words
(not deeds)
for though my actions fail me,
and reach exceeds my grasp
and efforts sometimes come to naught,
my words reveal
what’s true.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.


I know it to be folly,
but I won't stop.

When memories
don’t match mirrors,
science steps in
(as if on cue).

No need to act all saintly.
You’re wrestled with this demon,
chose a different track.
Feigned happiness.
Put on airs.
Said you’d never do as me,
but it’s an act,
a jealous thing,
mired in empty fears
and poverty.

Bones grow brittle,
faces crack,
and all that’s left
are tightly held beliefs
we once thought truth,
now shattered,
like pebbles on a riverbank
with time's river rushing by.

There are no angels here,
and vanity cannot save us.
But it will make the descent
a little prettier.

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


A glass half full,
but we want more.
Who says when it’s too much?
Fleece your neighbor.
Fill your plate.
Crowd your life to bursting.

There’s always room for another.

What values have we instilled
with our abundance?
All wound up with expectations,
drunk and stumbling
through the funhouse.
Tumble down
without a sound.
(No one wants to listen, anyway.)

It’s all a farce, you know.
So put on your glad rags
and clown shoes,
emit your happy cries
and cheer along with the others.
Refuse to see.

With our cravings we seal our fate.
We need to begin again.

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


I would extend a hand,
but you would pull me under.
Drown with you.
Die with you.
Take me to deep places
and make me measure hours
by the ticking of a doomsday clock:
End of time.
Out of rhyme.
Oh we are in a state, my friend.

Race to the bottom.
Race against time.
Patrons, a host of demons
who spread a bitter feast
where we dine upon delusion
and nibble tender mercies
salted with madness.

Fight your way out.
Fly away home,
but mud still clings to your wings,
pulling you back. 
We can't all get out alive.

Now I spend my days
under a cloud of I know why.
But still I understand,
and I say with all humility:
I have not sinned.

There can be no rescue
for those who wish to drown.

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