Nobody Can Touch You


The world behind a twist of brass

More theoretical than empirical but still a world

Faceless and spineless and relentless

Pumping gas in a daydream

Buying bottled water with fashionable plastic

Two hands strangling the steering wheel

One mind searching the windshield

For strange

For answers

For a pulse on concrete

Strolling across damp sidewalks in neon shoes

Snapping photos of sparrows and tulips and nothing

Cigarette from hand to mouth to crushed underfoot

Cheap body spray stains every thought

Lipstick red like an open vein

His name sleeps on swollen tongues

Her name is a tumor, a rumor, a panic attack

Green light, caution light, funeral night

Slow down

Way down

Crawl back to the vanilla box

Brew a pot of bitter coffee

Toss worthless skin on the bedroom floor

Remember the percussion of need

The taunt of beautiful storms

The whirlpool of anxiety in your belly

The rancid scent of loss and longing

Because the world is a sexy, selfish grifter

A flirtatious carnival barker

Stay terrified and immune

Stay detached and incomplete

Latch the door, shatter the lamps

Nobody can fucking touch you now




a dying fire


blue jelly plugged the hole

in his brain that exile created

on a boring tuesday afternoon

in april


he licked rose water from a

black chair & drank books

made from wine bottles &

patchouli oil


he ate sliced contusions &

gagged on irises the color of

maple syrup & smoked sad songs

wrapped in communion wafers


it was funny, this trespass of

his mind by an angelic knife

honed beneath a starving sun

funny as casket satin


he laughed & laughed & laughed

& laughed & laughed & laughed

at the absurdity of holding a dying fire

he laughed until he forgot   

the shape of her smoke



[It’s National Poetry Month so I had to contribute one underwhelming poem. And I think May is National Hermit Month. 30 days of dark silence? That’s what us aloof weirdos call an aphrodisiac. Back to my hole.]



Forthcoming Vanity


I thought about exploring my recent obsessions with this post. These include: Buying jeans online, buying skin care products online, searching for casual cotton trousers for the spring season online, and using Amazon Prime as a remedy for heartache. And Saverne artisanal craft beer kraut. Seriously, the most delectable thing I’ve had in my mouth since, well, nevermind. Time for the Wellbutrin.

Instead, this will be a quick post about my writing. I just wanted to mention some upcoming publications for my flash fiction. All four should be out in the near future, probably April and May. Or maybe one in March. I’m not sure; my memory is awful.

She Gave Him Violence – Easy Street Magazine

Eaters of Fire ——– Fictive Dream

Powerball for Drifters — Lost Balloon

Sun, Gun, Gone ——-Rabble Lit 

I’m pretty stoked about all of them. The last two are brand new journals with a murderers’ row of writers lined up. I’m a bit intimidated, to be honest. But I’m also proud and grateful. If an uneducated hack like me can get published by respected journals, anybody can.

Keep writing. Keep submitting. Keep persevering.

Keep wearing sweatpants?

Keep overusing the word keep.

Let your stories and poems speak louder than the rampant misogyny, racism, homophobia, and xenophobia that pollutes our digital world. Build a wall made of imagination, observation, and prose. Don’t ban Muslims, ban all the cowardly bigots who spew hate behind false names on social media. Let your art be the orchid in a mud puddle. If not art, use your voice. Silence is perpetual indifference.

Keep wearing sweatpants?





Garbage Man



Stoked to have my story Garbage Man in the first issue of Glove Magazine. A massive thank you to Ian Cusack for including my tale alongside some familiar, talented names. This zine is only in print, but you can order a copy via PayPal here: