Here’s a link to West Vine Press’ page and an interview I did for Kleftikos radio where I spoke with Frankie Metro about Slow Living.
Check out the release dates from West Vine Press which also include my upcoming book – Slow Living.
West Vine Press Moves Words Around To Make Real Books For Real Human Beings.
A new piece of mine is featured at Horse Less Review:
What’s it like on the south side of Mars? For those folks raised out there? Is it safer up there?
Is there no air in space because there’s no reason to waste your breath on prayers?
How much was the fare and how well did the farewell go? If ever you were even able to bid anyone such a thing.
No confinements are self-assured. Prisons prove themselves by the lack of escapes not merely by their walls.
No matter how brittle the captivity is if one resigns oneself to remaining, there is strength in the cell.
Surveillance works not by watching but by word of its doing so.
It’s a preventative world we endure.
How many other things have we been told here on this planet with its blues, greens, and transparencies imperfect in so many ways?
These gases expanding. These lungs collapsing. These pages running out on me.
What I didn’t know when I began remains something for which I wait as the covers serve up empty promises and then expect a tip for service.
Never had a shot in hell but luckily it’s pretty bright down here. Though, there’s sweat in the eyes.
And the greatest lie the Devil ever told was the truth. Which truth? All the truths. The ones that prove how cruel our Maker is and the truth that our Maker was nothing more than twisted serendipity. A sick happenstance. An ever-growing coincidence.
But what about the other planets and their alignments? Who knows? Go ask them. Maybe the divine did a bit more interfering there.
In uptown Jupiter are the streets safe?
On the beaches of Pluto are folks walking hand in hand although they deeply disagree? Do they think about us and our destruction?
Well, here comes the rain again.
(Tell me. Tell me.)
Now, here comes the sunshine.
(Tell me. Tell me once more.)
I can see clearly now.
(Close your eyes when you want to sleep.)
“Ooh child, things are gonna get easier
Ooh child, things’ll get much brighter”
(I want to know)
Some day, we’ll walk in the haze of the atom bomb again.
Seen a lot of what the world can do
But beware, look at the night –
Things are gonna be a lot lighter.
(Now, with a smile.)
Sweet dreams are made of these.
I am the witness with a heart full of seen it all, been there, done that, posted it on Facebook memories. I am a heart twisted to sleep. Turned and wrung out, left out to dry but soaked in nightmare sweat before the terrors are done giving their speeches.
What if I was only a secondhand witness? Should you believe how I relay the hearsay?
What if I am a storyteller?
What if I read it in a book?
. . . the morning paper?
. . . my newsfeed?
I couldn’t have unseen it any other way.
Somebody just ruined a perfectly good view of nothing much to see here.
No need to know what for. You got it or you don’t.
I am the last surviving member of my experience.
I am a head full of half-eaten desires. I remember eating apples as they rotted in my mouth. I could taste when they turned.
I can smell you in my armpits. The scent your head had when you slipped from the chest to the side. I remember more sleep than I care to recall.
I was wrong. I still am. Some things will never change.
Hollow is preferable to hallowed ground. I want to dig in. Find a new home under it all. I want to find solace in catacombs. I want to be a fox in its den. An arrow in its quiver. Bat in its cave.
Give me a hideout and a codename. Keep this identity a secret.
Self assured or self ashore? It’s hard to tell some days. These days. I’m all wet but I also hold the sound of the ocean in my ears.
Who can see me? My cloak of invisibility is malfunctioning (again). My luck is running out. Being seen never has any good consequences. The outcome always leaves me with another cautionary tale and nothing to brag about. Well, that’s what I get for wanting any sense of pride. I’m better off without.
Starvation is a virtue.
This is all there is. That is nothing here. These are not those. The spectrum has broken. The flexibility proved to be less flexible as more proof was needed.
Two ends exist. Who knows what this means?
There’s someone for everyone. Safe to say I am no one. With this lack I leave no trace but the agony of a blinded cyclops.
I am an s.o.s. washing away on the sand. A smoke signal lost to darkening skies.
I think I said just the opposite yesterday.
I am a wandering eye and a deaf ear. I am a club foot and claw hands.
I am the time it takes to count out all your fingers and toes. I am the moment a child discovers itself in the mirror. I am the shadow I am afraid of.
There’s a chance of rain. The streets will take their chances. They have no other choice. I am a witness waiting to see what happens next. I am the headstart. I am the left behind. I am under the weather. I am plotting my revenge. I have a battlecry. I am gathering a posse.
I am halfhearted. My gut is busted. My sides split. I laughed. The streets did too. It was in self-defense. We took refuge in humor. We’re allies and refugees. We take sanctuary in the filth of the world pouring down on us.
I am the lost voice. I am the get up and gone. I am what didn’t last forever. I am broken trust. I am gaptoothed. I am air escaping the life raft to be replaced by water, by fear. I am the sole survivor of my disgrace.
I am the dream that threatened me. I am an empty bladder. I don’t know where my insides went. What they saw, did, been, posted. I lost touch with me maybe for the last time. I think I’ve been blocked.
These very words carry a grudge against themselves
Crashing on their own ears with bad decisions in tow awaiting the rebuttal of a thousand foreign tongues
Meteor showers off in space somewhere between this desk and light years away with all those sci-fi heroes, guns, sabres, and phasers set to stun
Nothing is drunk to health anymore but friends and the future and some left for those spirits too young to know better than to mistake secrets for wishes and prayers
Hand in hand with whatever landed this pen here with thoughts unspoken and undesired venturing deep (enough) within looking for Virgil but falling for another
Waking with all the go
and none of the wander –
okay – there was no sleep
maybe that’s why
In dreams begin –
Birthed of REM
and blankets –
real ones –
not the stars –
seeks its freedom
to make circles
just as easily
and straight away
how the heat
would beat it
and suck vigor
There’s always strength left
to seek their start.
And none can be held
for the mess they’ll
to get there.