Color Me Jet Black

Her perfume hit me in the face like a baseball bat.

I don’t mean that she was wearing too much of it. What I’m tryn’a say is that it did something to me. Emotionally and physically. I was gripped by a sickening excitement. I felt faint. I felt like a caged tiger that has just made a run for his freedom, and succeeded. 

Her hair was cut perfectly, a razor-sharp line that sat just above her brows. Her eyes were doe-like pools of melted chocolate, only slighter lighter in color than her brunette bob. And those high-rise cheekbones that you just know would feel goddamn incredible brushing against your two-day stubble. It had been a long time since I’d had a woman, far too long. Disregarding the hookers, of course. 

This broad was driving me crazy. I was certifiable. I knew it wasn’t the brightest idea in the world to fall for this dame, but you can’t help these things, can you? They’re out of your control; you couldn’t change ‘em if you tried. Call me a fatalist. Call me whatever the hell you want. It’s the truth. 

Thankfully, I didn’t do anything stupid. Like actually talking to her. She was trouble, that was for damn sure. Or, maybe I was the one who was trouble? Without me she would about as dangerous as a kitten attacking a ball of string. I didn’t want to think about that, though. You just don’t go poking around some of them places. 
You’re bound to discover something you wish you hadn’t. 

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A Prayer for Late October

A Prayer for Late October - my debut poetry collection, is now available on
Here's what fellow Lazarus Media poet, Mercedes Webb-Pullman had to say about the book...

"From the Bradbury allusion in the first poem I know the narrator has jumped, and he’s falling, a dark angel, like Lucifer from heaven.  Two opposing worlds witness as the poet leapfrogs time and space in harrowing glimpses of death and guilt and a search for redemption. 

He examines his past in black and white for moments of enlightenment in a Zen-like sense of the natural world reminiscent of Gary Snyder before he plunges back to the beginning of time and forward to a coffin where life goes on, Darger’s children call to him, death is stacked like preserves on a pantry shelf and his darker self watches, breathes down his neck as he ponders a resting place after the fall. 

I enjoy the way the poems, like views from various angles, add up to a single cohesive and surreal world, dark and disturbing. I was happy to inhabit it for a while, and yes, he did grow wings."
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Sock Her, Mom!

Welcome to the neighborhood!
Where caffeine levels
Crash alongside minivans
It’s perfect, so perfect
It really is

So c’mon little girl
Play house with me
We both need something solid to cling to
Just like everybody else

Watching from the attic window
Keeping tabs on the tabloids
There’s only so much that I can do
How long can I keep up this charade?
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