Category: Writing

  • On the Skillet

    It marinates long and thorough on the skillet I sit waiting for the smell to pierce through nostrils and into my brain puncture and release the ooze and blood  dripping onto the  pan hissing in heat tomato sauce  spear I with the fork and taste it. raw.

  • “What does it mean to be alive?”

    I will ask you quietly,    irises of the lightest hue,   as if this – the simplest question – why the sky is – meanwhile, my throat will be  bleeding – in my head  I couldn’t stop screaming – chords snapped, voice lost, wishing I was a whale of the universe – see – my call…