About My Writing.

I post stories on here sometimes, usually chapters. If you see an error in there, I almost always know what it is but I leave it in anyways, first because it is just a rough draft, second because I could get money for it one day, and third, no one helps me with my writing so I have to do something about stress myself; fourth, because I don't know who reads this thing anyway, and it's just for myself, not for others. Writing is not for everyone. You can be famous, like Stephen King, but there is a lot of problems that come with it. I usually wait to send something out because I am not old enough; and because I pay attention to the sales of other books. A publisher picks up something that sells, not necessarily something that is just good writing. Most writers have to write something that an average sixth grader can read-firstly, because a book is not something you buy every day; secondly, because the average population reads at a sixth grade level. Sad, but those are the statistics, although I have not checked them lately and could be wrong about that.

Wizard's Alchemy Chapter 1.

Nicknamed Eltos and Betusl, the two suns spin around a strange and distant world called Merlin, as it was so named by the wizard who created it with his mind. Eltos appeared in the eastern horizon during the winter months; Betusl appeared in the western horizon during the spring, summer, and fall. Merlin began with a simple burst of magic, thousands of wars and thousands of years later, magic still reigned. The story begins on a planet called Earth, where Merlin was originally from.

Merlin is filled with a swirling mist of blues, greens, and browns, a beautiful planet some 789 billion light years from Earth. The galaxy it resides within is called Y’rln.

***

Merlin stared up at the towering castle, his mind on magic. A screaming sound came from deep within the castle walls. It was Prince Art, having one of his famous noonday tantrums. He sighed, wondering what it was about now. "Bloody hell," the wizard muttered, shaking his head. "Probably tore up the bed sheets again." He scowled. Merlin, as well as King Urther and his family, lived in Camelot, the greatest kingdom in the world; they had lords and ladies; dragons and sorcerers; a prince and a king. The prince’s mother, Igraine, was killed by a wild boar when he was a baby. Merlin suspected he was acting out of turn because she was taken so cruelly from him at such a young age. It wouldn’t be a surprise if this were the case. Prince Arthur had been irritating him lately; a young man going on fifteen, he carried the patience of a seven-year-old child. His father, King Urther, taught him better than that, but he rararely displayed it. King Urther paid more attention to the Knights of the Round Table than his teenage son, and Art, as everyone called him, did his best to let his father know he noticed it. One evening, Merlin and King Urther sat at the table in the great dining hall, eating a large dinner of chicken, mashed potatoes, biscuits, and beef. Merlin wasn’t sure he could eat anymore; he felt like he had swallowed an elephant, he was that full.

"Something must be done about that son of yours," Merlin said nervously, hoping he wouldn’t receive blacklash from him for speaking out of terms about his son. Prince Arthur wasn’t at the table. He had already eaten in the kitchen with the cook; he infuriated her by shattering a plate in a thousand tiny pieces all over the floor. King Urther sent him to the stables, and he was now out hunting with the other men, checking the traps for rabbit, deer, and fox.

"Art?" King Urther looked up from his cup, filled to the brim with beer. He blinked sleepily. "How’s that boy doing, anyway?"

Merlin groaned and slapped his forehead. The king didn’t even remember sending him out to the stables or that he had been kicked out and was now hunting!

"He’s a travesty!" a servant complained. "He jumped on seventeen beds on the first floor and left muddy footprints all over the sheets."

"He let a handful of toads in the kitchen!" someone else called.

"He tried to use my staff and it bit him in the rear-end," Merlin added darkly. He didn’t want to rat on the boy, but tattling was fun, and he hated it when someone else used his staff, especially someone who was less than worthy.

"We can buy you a new staff," King Urther said, scowling at the lot of them. "It’s not a problem. Really. You needn’t criticize him for that. He’s doing the best he can. Unlike some people who don’t know how to stop a war." He glared around the table, his gaze fixated on Merlin. Merlin ducked his head nervously. War wasn’t always his fault! The king should know that. Merlin shook his head. "That’s the only magic staff I have," he told him. "You can’t buy it at the market."

King Urther wasn’t about to give up. "We’ll call Brutus. Get him to find you one."

"I don’t think there are any staffs like that in the world!" Merlin said, annoyed the king didn’t understand that magic wasn’t an every day, average thing that anyone could have. "I made it myself. With my bare hands. The magic came from lightning." He was pleased with himself.

The king looked at him in surprise. "You made that ghastly thing?" He wrinkled his nose in disgust. "It’s ugly. You really ought to talk to Contessa; she has good fashion sense. Why, you haven’t used your magic here in ages. We haven’t had a war lately."

"Yes, I did make it," he explained impatiently. "It’s a magic staff. I showed you magic before."

King Urther hunched his shoulders in amusement. "I’m the king. Maybe I should have a magic staff." He pondered this, deep in thought.

Merlin took a sip of honeymead beer and put it on the table in front of him. It had the sour taste of being spoiled, and waved to a servant nearby to get him a new one. "I can make you a staff, but it won’t be made out of magic," he said. He was amused. Making a staff for the king. How quaint.

"Why not?" The king looked surprised, if not a little offended by Merlin’s rude remark. It wasn’t often that someone challenged the king.

"Because I said so," Merlin said. He was annoyed by the king’s childish demeanor; Merlin wanted to get back to work as quickly as possible. He didn’t want to have an actual conversation with him. "Are you finished drinking your beer or do I have to use my magic carelessly, as usual?"

The king nodded, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. "You may take it away."

Merlin scowled and shook his head. "I’m not a servant. I’m a wizard."

"You are my wizard," the king said happily. "That’s enough for me."

Merlin rolled his eyes. "Don’t remind me." He rose to his feet and stretched. "I think I’m going to find that son of yours."

"If you see him, tell him I said hello." The king's head dropped into his bowl of soup and it wasn’t long before he was snoring heavily in a pile of his own drool.

*

Prince Art glared at the stable door and kicked it with his feet, irritated that his Uncle Brock sent him back to the stables, and was making him work with the stable boy. He didn’t do anything! Honest! It was true the cook had shrieked at him this morning because he got in the blueberry pie when she told him not to, and it was true he had scared one of the maids while she was cleaning one of the hall closets, and it was true Art put a stuffed animal in one of the traps and made it look like a real animal, but they were just jokes. Really. They ought to know the difference. Besides, he shouldn’t have to talk to common folk if he didn’t want to. They were just jealous of him.

"If you’re going to destroy my barn," a familiar voice said patiently, "at least be polite about it." And there stood Merlin in the doorway of the barn, wiping his hands on his pants.

"What are you doing here?" Prince Art said, looking at him in surprise. "I thought my father was making you come up with love potions again." He chuckled at the thought.

Art was old enough to think about girls in that way, but he didn’t know who to ask yet. There was Cherri, the cook’s daughter; Minerva, his neighbor; and there was the girl his father paid to befriend him. She was by far the cutest but he was embarrassed she had been paid to talk to him. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling. Nowadays his father gave him less pleasant feelings as time wore on, and he had to rely more and more upon himself.

Merlin shook his head. "I told him the potions wouldn’t work," he said in a patient tone. "Somehow, I didn’t think the information set in yet." He chuckled. "Now, I’m saving you from a lifetime of labor. Come inside, boy, I have something to tell you."

Intrigued, Prince Art followed him into the barn. It smelled lovely, manure with a mixture of hay and wood and just the hint of spice. Sunlight fell in the windows of the barn, the gold glimmering against the shadows around it. "What do you want to talk to me about?" he asked, wondering if the man was going to give him another lecture. Everyone gave him lectures; the cook; the servants; even his father, on occasion, when his mouth wasn’t around a drum stick.

"Magic," Merlin responded with a smile.

A smile lit the boy’s face. "Magic?" he said. "Really?"

Merlin nodded.

Finally! Something fun! He knew he could count on Merlin, even if he was just a crazy old crackpot with too many magic tricks.

"Are you going to show me one of your tricks?" he asked eagerly.

Merlin uttered a short laugh. "It’s not a trick, boy," he said, shaking his head. "It’s real magic."

Art looked around. "Where’s your staff?"

"Hidden inside my robe." He pointed to a block of wood. "Sit on that, please." He pulled another block of wood next to him.

"Now," Merlin began. "I am sure you are already aware of magic. You perform magic yourself-each and every day." He smiled, pleased with himself.

Art scowled. "I knew there was a catch." He started to get up.

"Hold on! There’s a point to the story. A very good one, too."

Art groaned. "Let’s here it," he said, wishing he was anywhere but here, even inside, cleaning the sheets, like the servant wanted him to do earlier and his father saved him by sending him outside.

"The point of this story is," Merlin continued. He frowned. "I forgot the point of the story." His face brightened. "I know! I’ll make one up!"

Art scowled. "Why don’t you just make me clean the stables instead? It’s quicker."

Merlin nodded. "Atta boy. Get to it. Up! Up!"

Art rose to his feet, picked up a rag, and started washing the dirty windows.

"Art!" Merlin started to say.

Art looked over his shoulder but the man disappeared.

"Just great!" Art complained. "Now I have to clean the stable by myself. Some

advice," he grumbled, and started scrubbing the windows fiercely.

*

This Is Not My Life.

My ears revolve around satellites.

My old friend, Stan, gave up his life in

return for a few radishes-radishes that

were old and had potato bugs stuck on them.

You said you would not go back to that place,

the place with the dirty walls and dirty homeless

fools who fell from grace,

who switched from being businessmen to jerks

wearing brown jackets.

I am not proud to admit this, but my old friends

are like this, old and misused ones who would

trade a million dollars for a drink of beer,

for a date with a hooker, for a credit card.

The dreams are not there any longer.

They have been buried underneath piles of sand

by parents who thought too much about themselves

instead of their own children,

about handmade pot holders with pictures of

snowflakes on them.

My old one fell behind the stove.

I can't use it anymore.

I asked Jon how his date with the hooker went.

He stared at me, bleary eyed, smelling of too

much beer and onion rings,

his sorrow in a bottle, his eyes holding back tears.

He has problems with finishing the things he started.

Mrs. Alsworth.

Do not follow me, my seventh grade teacher said,

do not follow where the path may lead-follow your own path.

Do not follow bears, chipmunks, lima beans.

Every day a boy named Joshua brought her an apple.

She was pleased by it but others did not like it,

they called him pirate, scalawag, girl-boy.

Every day he brought her an apple,

and he only got C's in math, and went to church like everyone else.

His suit was old. Worn.

And when he grew up he got a job at a factory

and made money selling pamphlets at the local pharmacy and

barely had enough money to pay his bills.

He did not hate the government, he merely shunned it,

did not shun the president, the Senator, the FBI.

The days wore on and violence grew less and less until he changed

tactics and became a famous rock star but he never

grew tired of those pamphlets that he kept in his closet.

untitled.

Words dash against wooden planks.

Ancient words are not words themselves.

I move, like Shakespeare, he iseth me note!

Not like wounded soldiers in the Battle of Stalingrad.

O harketh! My wounded soldiers speaketh note,

wherefore I am blustery like the rivers of Babylon.

I babble on and on in radios, on television,

people stare at me with bitter eyes and nothing is

forgotten, begotten, like a long begotten son

who glimmer glares down at me from some other tree.

Ships sink in a tourniquet. I am borrowed, not blue;

who, who are you? My little hand that weaves

like minnows during the Civil War and nothing, no one,

marches with glass and old buildings never shaped

from. sake.

untitled.

Stupid Atlantic Monthly. Think they'll reject my work if I send it in? Probably.

William Shakespeare.

It did always seem so to us: but now, in the division of the kingdom, it appears not which of the dukes he values most; for equalities are so weighed, that curiosity in neither can make choice of either's moiety. -King Lear

The Manuscript.

The manuscript sits on the shelf, gathering

dust and mildew and the old writer still

does not see-

my life is a blank page that is open into

a door that revolves around a world that

is no longer here-

forgive me, uncertainty, for I may mingle

in doorways that see into yesterday and boxers

are calm in their waking;

and the uncertainty is not coming with something

I no longer see,

and we are here, like revolving shadows,

caskets, if you will, of broken parts,

words that speak of reason,

no more reason to be had-

Update.

I tore 75,000 words out of my novel and I am working on the main plots: when Ellerhynwyn and Sebastian were adults. That works better.

blah.

Okay I deleted 150,000 words-that was just my practice writing, not my real writing, the real story is on my laptop. It is like getting rid of a friend but I had to do it for the sake of my plot.

List of things I want to buy.

Next month I will have to buy a printer.

A memory stick.

Speakers in the Wall.

This is the world that is closed

like a void-a door swinging shut.

This is the world that speaks to me,

an endless void of blackness that fills

my eyes, fills my heart, fills my lung

like a shadow.

Clouds gather above, a thunderstorm

crashes into autumn, blocking me from

becoming something that is sinister.

Trees look like haggard old women,

dresses sway in shopping store windows.

I am Madame Quartinine, she cries, her teeth

showing slabs of white bread.

Mystery.

I found one of my old mysteries and I am working on it now. It is 12,43 words long.

A Beginner's Guide to Sign Language.

The woman signs to serpents singing

in the Baltic Sea one day, it was a Monday,

and Caesar was not well.

He did not like the feeling the war gave him,

his throat tightening, his mouth frothing,

his friends running around like wild boars on

and island and by the way did you see that episode

of the Simpsons where the children got trapped

on the island with Milhouse and a wild boar who

was eventually slaughtered? The president told me

he did after he knocked over his podium when one

of the journalists was trying to find out if trolls do,

yes, sir, exist behind podiums and not just in cupboards

and sometimes field mice live in actual fields-.

The island was not an island of forgetting.

The dawn came quick over the horizon, slicing

like a grinder and my heart stopped for a moment when

I witnessed the sun’s first rays of breath.

Update.

I sent in my vampire story at 15,055 words. It could be turned into a novel. I also started working on a script called "Don't Look Behind You" a ghost story about a haunted house. I have decided just to write the dialogue and plug in everything else later.

In an Empty House.

the house was empty when he got home
no one was there to help him unpack his things
it was a studio he rented from an apartment complex
in ohio he only moved there to be closer to his friend
alex who was going through divorce and bought
a green bicycle alex was his best friend he had a nice
house and a good job and a girlfriend he did not have
any of those things yet he was new to the area and
his last girlfriend dumped him for a sumo wrestler
who was only in nebraska for a week he hated long
nights in autumn when the roof leaked and he could not
hear himself think sometimes he wished he could think about
deep things like his friend becky but
whenever he found room to think
he didn’t know what to say afterwards.

Dog and His Bone.

the dog trots thru the traffic
hoping to find his bone he lost

the bone was special to him he
loved to chew on it underneath

the stairs while his master watched
tv in the den or read the newspaper

the master’s name was larry he
went away on vacation once and left

the dog with his bone his neighbor alice
came to check up on him

he wagged his tail whenever he saw her.
They did not have a special bond but he

liked it when she pet him.
he never found his bone but he liked it

when she pet him.

Woods In the Forest.

The woods in the forest called my name.
Minerva was my crow; I lost her last week.
She ran away and never came back. Ran
away like my cousin Wilma did when she found
out her husband was sleeping with the pianist,
the man who thought Hitler was insane.
I thought Hitler was mad, but not insane;
insaneness is a different theory altogether,
a different thing, I’m sorry if my words can
connect together better than your words can,
I grew up being alone, grew up getting along
on my own. Some say we are never alone.
That little ghosts follow us wherever we go,
sometimes hiding in cupboards or underneath our
bed, where mothballs usually go.
The woods in the forest called my name.
I wish I could go home. I am in Chicago,
waiting for my uncle to stop drinking; waiting for
my dog, Hercules, to wake up from his nap.
I moved here last week with my mother, my
brother, the boy who fell in love with a stripper
and crawled onto the edge of the world to peer
down into it.

Beginning of a new story, Shadowmaker.

The glow from the sun came drifting through the fog as the submarine made its way through the mist of the Bering Sea.  Lieutenant Theodore Walsh of the 54th Platoon stared out the periscope, his mind reeling with questions, wondering what he was supposed to do next.  He had just gotten a call on his cell phone from Commander Louis P. Harrington.  

Looks like the Russians were at war with the U.S. again and were keeping it secret.  That was a good move on the president’s part, but it didn’t make the transition any less painful than it actually was.  He was going to have to do something about it.  And soon.  But not until he got word from the president.  

"Lieutenant," a familiar voice said pleasantly.

He jumped, whirled around to face Commander Larry Samuel.  He was an oldish man, going on fifty-five, with a long white beard and beady brown eyes.  Theodore admired the man profoundly and was hoping to be just like him when he reached that age, with awards and medals galore and a submarine to boot.  "Hello," he said.  "What’s the word on the street?"

The commander shook his head.  "No word," he answered.  "Just breakfast in the kitchen.  You’ve been kind of jumpy lately."

Theodore nodded.  "Just received word from the president.  Feels like war is on the horizon."  Goosebumps rose on his arms and he shivered.  "What’s for breakfast?"

Larry chuckled.  "Eggs and bacon.  And sausage."

"Biscuits and gravy?"

"Yes.  Of course."

Theodore did a little dance on deck and followed him through the submarine until they came to a little room marked "Cafeteria."  Larry pushed open the door and they entered, side by side.  Six pairs of eyes followed him.  Commander Sarah O’Connor; First Lieutenant Sarah Walsh; soldier, Patrick Littlefoot; and others.  Theodore saluted them and pulled out a chair.  A steaming plate of food was waiting for him.  "What’s this?" he said, surprised and pleased.

"Food," Sarah Walsh answered.  "Clyde got a call from his wife and he wanted to take it."

"I thought his cell phone broke."

Patrick chuckled.  "He got it while we were on land in Barbados."

"And now we’re all the way at the Bering Sea," he said.

Patrick nodded.  "That is so.  Dig in."

Theodore looked at it, wondering if the man had spit in it.  He shrugged his shoulders and dug in.  The food was delicious, and he went to the breakfast buffet to get more.

story update.

I got another rejection from "Flash Fiction Online."  They said it went to the second round; I thought it didn't get past the first round.  At least the story didn't completely suck.  I would send it out more if I could actually buy a new printer that works longer than a year.

Morning House, Morning Glory.

The house looks foreign in the morning.

Like a Nazi warrior grimacing over broken bones

and pots and pans, over cousins who steal

jobs from foreign workers and promises we

can’t see.

Over darkness that wans; over moonbeams

that give a glimmer a glow of something we

can’t keep to ourselves, to keep us back, 

keep

us moving forward in a time we have been convinced

isn’t real, isn’t sacred, isn’t 

England, isn’t community.

O ode to Walt Whitman, who was unreliable in

his standing; who didn’t like writing anything worth

reading, who stared at Abe Lincoln’s statue and

groaned his lover’s name, a woman who became

a teacher.

The house looks foreign in the morning, sometimes,

after a comma is hashed out, after darkness wans,

after the moon smiles at you and you can’t see

in front of you, you can’t see anything behind you.

This is what I said it is what it is.

This is what I said it isn’t.

update.

Horn of Neverwhen-31,833; not yet finished.

Wizard's Alchemy-138,564

Love By Nightfall-15,055

*and various other stories, unfinished.

Being Hated.

My friend draws tattoos on women with 

bodies like spiders.

He says it makes him happy.

Every day I tell him he is a good person,

that he has a good heart.

He says he knows this.

One way or another, he says, the world is like

a sheet of glass-you can either look

through it or break it down,

but if you break it down, your knuckles

won’t survive the bust.

I don’t know how to do anything.

I am a writer; it’s what I do.

It doesn’t even put food on my table.

I try to write about nature; about birds

and bees and pirates.  It never comes out

right.  My friend, who is an artist,

always has the upper hand-

he’s the kind who smokes cigarettes

on occasion, and can make friends in

every situation, even though he knows

they are part-time friends, not real friends

that people really need.  

Somehow, I always make

enemies.  I wear glasses; they are like two

sheets of glass.  But it doesn’t make me

feel better.  Nothing does.  I still make

the music, still eat the food, 

even though it’s disgusting and I feel like

throwing it up, feel like smoking weed

and drinking booze and I never do.

Nothing ever works out the way I want it to.

People hate me more than average.

The Last Boat.

The boat goes around and around in a circle

in the middle of a lake that is polluted

and filled with broken bottles.

Rain has been falling every day for a week.

The weatherman says it’s going to be a scorcher

every day in September, but I don’t believe a

word of it.

I told you about the tattered magazines I found

in the alleyway, how they were torn up and thrown

away by a man who hated the government,

who despised the U.K. and Israel.

He used to be a lawyer, an attorney,

and was fired by his boss for being late on three

occasions.  The man wanted to sue him but

he fled the country, perhaps to South America.

No one has seen him since then.

The boat still goes around and around in a circle

in the middle of a lake that is polluted,

and the president declares an emergency on India;

while, somewhere in Ohio, an old man watches

the news and cries over his granddaughter who

was lost in a storm.

Update.

I submitted some poems to a magazine called "Five By Five."  Waiting for a rejection.

My vampire story is now 14,341 words right now.

the fir trees glare down at me.

the fir trees glare down at me

from afar, from where I sit on the porch,

leafing through old letters you sent

to me.   my tears blot the page.

I sit on my feet,

humming a melody.  I can’t think

when the wind is moaning like

that;

moaning like a river frothing

at the mouth.  moaning like

some giant dog.

you came up the mud bank,

your hair glistening,

as if you had just gone for a swim.

I know you were at home,

taking a shower,

getting ready for the day.

you smile at me, and words fall prettily

from your purple mouth.

I catch a scent of your perfume

in the palm of my hand.

The Word, "Love."

The word love should not be thrown 

around lightly-

it should not be taken into consideration

unless you speak about the lions

in their dens,

about the genius of a blank page.

I guess you could say that I have

angered the gods.

My shoes are not on too tight.

My heart is broken and misused.

I could not stay away from

the cub,

could not believe the words

that drifted in the fog.

Being on tv will do that to you,

especially if your words are in the media,

especially if you walk in a straight line.

I come home every day after work

and kick back and relax and

look at the newspaper.

Sometimes, my mind is beyond my grasp.

Sometimes, I don’t know where I should 

land.

I see faces in front of me,

but they won’t speak aloud.

Blurb for Keep Her Safe.

**
Who stole Sarah’s prize diamond necklace?
Sarah, the wife of a rich businessman, is flabbergasted when the famous necklace she received from Princess Victoria is stolen right from under her. Realizing she showed it to the maid, Mona Verion, before the burglary, the woman is fired from her job and the entire manor is re-staffed. With the help of Mona’s boyfriend, Shawn Parker, and a snotty, boisterous lawyer, she is bailed out of jail; Sarah apologizes for the accusations, and re-hires her on the spot. Intent on making things right between her and her boss, and determined to show her innocence, she goes on a search to help her find the missing diamonds and clear her name-once and for all.

I have about 5,000 words on this new story; I want to send it to eharlequin.com For some reason, literary agents tire me at the moment. I think.

It Won't Work, Melissa.

There was the time Melissa tried to get me into a singing career; there was that agent at the Billowing Pig, who knew someone in Hollywood who knew some casting director at American Idol and was looking for new faces. I don't care about Hollywood. I care about reading books. So, Melissa, if you are reading this, no, I am not going to be an actress or a singer in Hollywood, no matter how well I sing. I'd rather learn how to make birds out of loose leaf paper. I'd rather learn how to make paper cranes.

Published here: http://tuesdayshorts.blogspot.com/2009/04/it-wont-work-melissa.html

On rejections.

Rejections from "Flash Fiction Online" and "Uglycousin." They say it varies by taste, but you know it has to do with popularity. My name is not popular; and if you don't learn things exactly how they want you to do things at college, you're pretty much screwed if you're a genius or prodigy or if you simply like to learn (which pretty much constitutes for a genius nowadays).

If you want to know why certain things sell and others do not, it is because most products are so simple that an IDIOT could understand it. They don't care about knowledge or talent-American Idol is a prime example. Even names like Michael Jackson or Matt Damon or "baseball" are simple words that the average American can understand. It is quite fascinating, really, I have always wanted to do a study on linguistics and the game theory. It's all about the money. If I had gotten money for the ideas I gave away, I would be able to get published or get a job or go to school anywhere I want. I do have some dignity, thanks, people who are actually intelligent DO have a sense of responsibility to maintain.

Say you made up a word and used it in one sentence a month for a year. Less than 7% of the people you encounter would be able to pick up on the fact that it's NOT a real word. And how many people have actually read a Stephen King novel? Not many. Some buy it to impress their friends. Poetry is a lot worse off, no one understands it, and therefore, no one accepts it. I mean, JEWEL published a book of poems for the love of God! I should just throw in my towel right now.

All the Good Deeds in the World.

All the good deeds in the world have been done-cashed in
Like a check, I am using the pen my grandfather gave me,
Blue with a flashlight on the end of it. Saturday you came
And we went to the grocery store and ordered salami from
A red-headed hooker whose mind was somewhere else,
Probably on fucking a man in a yellow suit, who can’t sing
With a damn.
At a J. Geil’s concert, my aunt sits between an old woman
Who looks like a duck and has a bad hair perm, ignoring
The stench of too much perfume. I am calm in my mannerism,
Trying not to become one of the faceless voids in the crowd,
Trying to be polite, trying not to cast myself out.
People act like
Zombies without an original thought in their head. I wonder if
They like it. I wonder if their moods change from day to day,
If they are happy about their life, if they are proud of what they
Have done.
I am not proud, I am disgusted, self-loathing, and insecure,
Wallowing in my own self-pity of acceptance. I try to fit in and give
Up, force myself to do good deeds. You say I am ridiculous,
That I can’t see past a brick wall.

Homeless.

I cannot be who you want me to be.
My body is ever-changing, like a sapling
Rising from the ground, like the sun
Dripping gold over the horizon.
Shadows whisper and wan. My mood has
Changed. I am a blue-collared mongrel,
You say, and a fiend and I am hungry,
Wanting bread, maybe a hot dog with yellow
Mustard dripping from the edges of it.
I cannot be who you want me to be.
My body is ever-changing, ever crying,
Filled with pieces of information, skin cells,
And a lung.
Every day is just like the one before.
I have no family. I am homeless, without
A man, without a label-I quit my job as a waitress
Last week, my last check has been cashed.
I beg for change on a street corner, pretending
I am someone.

scripts.

And now I am writing a tv pilot about vampires....buahahhahahahaahahahaahhaha.

Update.

I wish I had my characters back.

I was just trying to learn how to write a story. :/

Update.

Now I am working on four projects-

The Great Panda Mystery (script)
Wizard's Alchemy (novel)
How To Say I Do (script)
By Nightfall (novella)

Wizard's Alchemy: Sebastian and the initiation.

The shadows stretched low over the land as Sebastian Monteserrio walked towards the ruins, afraid and frightened of what might transpire in the next few seconds, the next few minutes, the next hour. It was said that these initiations were terrible things that changed men forever. The Elves had an easier time with it because they adapted more easily to magic. Sebastian despised magic. He glanced up at the sky. A full, silver moon rose above him, throwing shadows in front of him and not behind him or to the side. He did not want to be here. But Alira, the love of his life, was in constant danger and he had to do something-anything-to protect her. This was the only thing he could think of.
The Dark Wizard looked at him, his expression grim. “Are you ready?” he asked.
Sebastian swallowed hard. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yes,” he whispered, his words so low he could barely get the words past his throat. Tears squeezed out of the corner of his eyes and he could not cry, could not let the tears fall. He hated crying in front of people. A bat flew overhead. He jumped.
“Where is the Gate?”
“You must walk up to the ruins of the monument, and put your hand inside it,” he answered, “and then you must try to pull the key out of the lock. If you are able to pull out the key, you are a real Dark Knight. If not, we will cast you into the Wild Blue.”
“What’s the Wild Blue?”
“It’s a skeleton graveyard beyond the ruins. Some survive; most do not.”
“Why not?” Sebastian asked.
“It is hard to find food and water. All the trees are dead; monsters roam the land like shadows.”
Sebastian nodded. “Thanks for the four one-one.”
Crandek smiled. “Anytime,” he replied. “Now, you must go.” He glanced behind him. Sebastian followed his gaze. Nothing but darkness was seen. It made him afraid. Goosebumps rose on his arms. Several Dark Elders clustered around him, chanting an odd, haunting melody that reverberated in the back of their throats, and a terror unlike anything he had ever known filled his soul and clawed at the back of his mind.
The words were this:
“Annatey-arah, kain, tarenmen, ahwie, ehuil, sarahpah,
Arahd, silvea tei lein nah anah fuan!
Harah ney anah dah,
Gorah Hepah haun!”
The wind picked up, faster and faster, until a howl of voices surrounded him. All at once he imagined fingers grabbing him, the invisible fingers of ghosts. Sebastian nearly passed out. A Dark Elder steadied his shoulder. He wanted to scream at them, Don’t touch me! And couldn’t. He was frightened, and it was no wonder, for he was in the land of ghosts. A hand steadied his shoulder. War made it all the worse.
He glanced at Crandek. "I must go by myself," he said. The Dark Elder smiled, his teeth full of cragged, yellow bone. "That's the plan," he replied.
Sebastian shuddered. He hated Crandek. The man was more evil than the others. He did not know why, but he felt it deep in his soul. Stay away from this man, his mind whispered. His heart obeyed.
“Not all apprentice knights are cast out,” Crandek continued. “Therefore, we will give you one weapon. A dagger.” A flick of his wrist and a dagger appeared in his hand where there wasn’t any before. Sebastian was impressed. It wasn’t every day he saw something appear where nothing was before.
“It contains magic,” Crandek continued. “A spell was put over it to help you if you’re cast into the wild. Don’t take it as an insult. Not all apprentices make it.” One of the Dark Elders snorted. Sebastian glanced at him. That was the only sound he made.
“I’ll take it,” he said. He put the dagger in the empty sheath around his waist and moved forward.
A Dark Knight pushed him behind. Laughter reached his ears. He glared at them. “Stop it!” he hissed. “I’m going, I’m going.” He hobbled forward, reminding himself not to make friends with darkness. The ruins of the monument rose large and proud above them.
The monument, that of Merlin the Wise, had been several stories high. Up until seven hundred years ago, when a cannon had blown it up-or at least, that’s what everyone else said.
Sebastian believed it was magic that took out the great and terrible thing; whether he liked magic or not, he knew it existed, and that terrified him even more. Most of the statue still remained intact except for the front of the statue, the door that lead to somewhere Sebastian couldn’t see, and the arms had been chopped off. Most of the buildings around it had been destroyed, but a silver key protruded from the door of the monument. There were eight Merlins that had roamed the land since the first Merlin came to this world.
They are: Merlin the Wise, Merlin the Tall, Merlin the Grand, Merlin the Great, Merlin the Second, Merlin Shartenz, Merlin Oray Bradlin, Merlin the Green, Merlin the Elder.
Only the original Merlin was the most famous, and had done the most magic. Sebastian wasn’t sure if he hated the man or feared him. Some say he was still alive, even though seven thousand years had passed since he took his last breath. Sebastian began to tremble. He wanted to turn around and run, but he was trapped.
The Dark Knights would seek him out, and destroy him, if he did that. A person who did not pass the initiation would be instantly killed. He did not like these rules, but there was nothing he could do to change their wicked ways. Beat ‘em or join ‘em, had been King Og’s saying in 2123 BEC, in order to get men to join the army. It worked. Thunder rumbled overhead.
A cloud of dust rose above him. Sebastian coughed; dust filled his eyes and mouth and lungs. The Dark Knights faded from sight, and Sebastian was on his own. He walked forward, one, step after the other, toward the monument. He was so frightened he was shaking in his boots, afraid the giant statue would come to life before his eyes.
Weirder things have happened. He snorted. Like a war between Elves and dragons several thousand years ago.
His little home had been shattered by magical creatures that he had once believed were imaginary. He wondered if he was going mad. It wouldn’t be the first time the thought passed through his head and settled in his mind like burning sulfuric acid. The wind picked up.
Walking among the ruins was like walking in a graveyard that was eerie and dark, shadows moving around him like they were alive. He’d read stories about zombies and ghosts and hoped they weren’t true. Sebastian inched closer and closer to the monument.
The key glared at him like an eye. The sun had gone completely behind the clouds, a red burning thing that pulsated like lightning. Darkness was everywhere. Sebastian felt at home even though he was frightened. He was going to have to get used to the darkness. He thought about his family. Of his mother and father, their faces flashed in his mind. They had both died at an early age, their mother was the first one to go. He thought about Damsel, the Little Warrior, the Crusader who befriended magical folk, specifically the Elves and dragons. He thought of his twin brother.
They looked exactly alike, like two peas in a pod. When they were children, they played together all the time; and as they got older, and the responsibilities were thrust upon their shoulders and their father died, they grew further and further apart. It was sad, but it happened. He did not think he hated the man-he was, after all, his twin. It irked Sebastian the way Ellerhynwyn always got his way, or the way that Damsel looked up to Ellerhynwyn more than him. He usually did his good deeds in secret, like the time Aunt Millicent came over and Damsel wanted to play with her friends instead of taking sewing lessons and he distracted her while she slipped out the door. He realized his father had always been a transparent figure in his life, even before his death, he had been away on business constantly, or fucking the many hookers he’d hired to fuck. Sebastian did not know how his mother’s death affected their father, probably the worse thing that had ever happened to him.
Maybe it drove him mad. He had never had a full-time girlfriend after their mother died. Sebastian reached the stone steps of the monument and walked up them, one at a time, his eyes on the towering head of Merlin high above him.
“What have you gotten yourself into, you stupid sonofabitch?” he muttered between clenched teeth.
He stood in front of the door, studying the wood, only the door was wooden but everything else was not. It was a very peculiar statue not to mention annoyingly large.

Update.

I started writing a script.

English Language.

Wow if someone says "nigga" or "LOL" or "Omgah beer!" one more time I am going to puke white chocolate. I am serious. If that's what the English language is coming to, I AM SCREWED when it comes to novels. No wonder shitty novels sell so well, the plot is so simple a child could read it. Better stop reading the dictionary and Tom Clancy.

YA novel.

I think that one YA novel idea I have would work...I just have to plot it. I wrote the first chapter, thinking about the others...it's called "7th Order" but it sounds like a crappy Dan Brown novel, I can't think of anything else to call it besides "Untitled" at the moment. I pulled "Wizard's Alchemy" out of Baen Books again, ha! I started working on it and have 130,000 words and think I want to write more. Since it is about a world called Merlin, I am going to add 40,000 words about Merlin's life. He is kind of like a vampire-mage, came from Atlantis, realized he had the gift of teleporting, and uhhhhh....then it forwards a few hundred years to the present, where Merlin is no longer...present, only his relics remain behind. Five relics to be exact, they are called the Power of the Five, some of them include: a black book, a ring, a talisman, a sword, and a gold key.

My goal would be Roc, and I bet you they would accept it, or Tor, however, it is a lot of ink and paper and that would equal to over $75, including shipping and handling-not to mention it could be rejected even if they like it.

Perhaps I should have gotten credit for the other stuff I wrote...stupid ghostwriting. Stupid morals. Stupid art. *sad face.*

My first secret is...I wrote my own piano scores when I was five. THEN I wrote some songs. THEN I wrote a short story and asked someone to finish it for me (which they did). And so on and so forth.

Luckily no one reads this darn thing and no one will care. :/

It's not like anyone can do anything except me anyway. If I have a high IQ, what kind of school am I going to go to that I won't be bored at? If I have a high IQ, what kind of test am I actually going to pass? Not to mention my family, esp. on my mother's side, have a few people with high IQs and they get recognition because they don't have a heart condition. Who cares if I wrote the stuff myself instead of knowing who Mozart was or what time period Beethoven lived in (although I probably knew anyway and no one paid any attention, I don't remember EVERYTHING I did.)

Isn't that what Mozart did, write new stuff? And then they say his IQ is 140+? Hello!

Also a lot of the people in college are immature and tedious...no offense to them.

It’s All Relative.

My mother’s voice keeps me still.
I walk backwards.
I have eyes in the back of my head.
My words mean little to anyone else-
I have been raised by a street lamp.
The stars beam down on me.
The wind glistens like rain.
I am desperate for noise,
for music-the clarinet just won’t do.
Did I just say that? I didn’t mean
how it sounded;
didn’t mean the words that came
from my mouth,
that were uprooted from the ground.
I take myself out for lunch at McDonald’s,
and drive home to read a new Danielle Steele
novel.
This is the extent of my day.
It makes me happy.

Wizard's Alchemy.

Shitttttt, "Wizard's Alchemy" is over 130,000 words now. Le Sigh. I MUST break it into a sequel or trilogy.

Still some editing errors. Frack.

Update on vampire story.

Crap...my vampire story is only 12,671 words long; I want to get to 15,000 words, 12 thou is still considered a novella, however, I just like to round up. If I can't, Harlequin still accepts works that are under that amount.

I only need to write in a few more scenes.

Update on synopsis ideas.

I started writing a new science fiction novel. It is called "Wager's War" for now; I came up with this other title before and I forgot it. Uh oh. I also have this other idea for a science fiction novel called "Sun Dogs." A sun dog is an atmospheric phenomonen in space, primarily associated with sunlight by small ice crystals. Kinda hard to explain but you can look up what it means online.

Winds Exhausted.

In the dark, my eyes are bitter, the winter winds moan
And beat at glass windows.
Hunting season has come to pass-the October nights
Are chilly and the water falls into the well.
Darkness comes. Shadows heave in and out of dark
Lights, space is continual as a drum-
I left you alone late one night in August,
Your heart is temporal as doom. Some nights I dream
About Sylvia Plath, toiling and tossing in her
Feather bed, humming dead languages in my ear.
She left me here, alone, like Poe, alone, like birds,
They shelter me like words of wisdom and whisper dead
Things.
In the dark, I cannot rhyme worth a damn. I think about
Vermont and Kentucky, where my bitches reside,
I think about simple promises and things I have lost,
And use my thinking cap like they taught us in school.
No one admires me. Everyone says I am a faggot,
A black sheep, something to be used and thrown away.
No one in Europe hears me sighing, only the doves hear me
Crying.

Resiliant.

My grandmother sat in her rocking chair
Spouting songs of war-Vietnam, World War I,
The war in Iraq and Afghanistan.

She said she’s seen them all.
My husband bought a new car, parked it in the driveway
Of our new house. I stood proudly, admiring
His efforts-the love of my life, my secret admirer.

I met him at a barbecue seven years ago,
At my father’s house-he brought the ketchup and
Mustard, and charmed my neighbor.

She was sixty
Years old and later that year, moved to a nursing home
that was run
By the government-the rooms cost three hundred
Dollars each.

Poems fell out of open mouths like ashes.
My husband said he would give me the stars if it
Made me happy.

Radio Waves.

Nouns bounce off of broken radios.
My mind goes on like a microwave.

I am not Einstein. I am not awake,
I am not feeling-many people think
Of me as a blade of grass. As a piece
Of cheese. Something to be eaten,
And spit out.

The grapes stick out of the vine. (Whine.)
Many people crowd the alleyways,
Sticks and stones break through differences
And crossroads disappoint me.

I never remember what I say after a hard
Day’s work. I never remember everything
When I go to the grocery store.
Tomorrow is another day. I troop up
And down the stairs like a mother
Hen waiting to be fed. Waiting for
Someone.
My husband angers the gods.

Scripts.

Dang! I really want to write a script but those are very difficult. Plus, I am smart, so I have no life.

Awake, Loved.

What the blue rivers say are not
what they speak,
what the green bells waving in
the brown grass.
Waving leisurely in the wind.
An elephant lumbers past.
War is transparent, a piece of leaf
is caught in an updraft.
You held me, befallen,
in a piece of paper,
in a riddle.

The ground sucks up all the juice,
the sky is blue above me.
What, what say you-
how high does your voice rise,
clear over a clear day.
Clearer than what I say.
I am tired.
My ears flap like an elephant’s.
I read books,
and shun black baskets.
My back aches,
my breasts heave for you in
the dim and the dark
and the sound of the rain
wakens me. Welcomes me.
The still of the night won’t let
me down.
The beat of your heart shelters me,
love.

Walking To the Store.

I walked down the street to the deli store
on Fifth and Crayfish,
my stomach rumbling. I hadn’t
eaten
anything in
seven hours.

Cars drive by on the highway.
Lights are
reflected off the street lamps.
Mona waved to me as I walked past her.
She had been my friend for a little over
three months.

I walked into the store,
and ordered pimento loaf-
it was my favorite,
I slathered it in mayonnaise and
ham. The cook smiled at me,
offered me a free cookie-

I exclaimed "Thanks!" and drove home.
Tomorrow was another day.
It was not the same day as the one before.
Tomorrow I would have to eat something
else,
or else buy things from the grocery store.

Jessie said this was okay.
I said maybe I should write a grocery list.
And stick it on the refrigerator,
upside down.

I read once that William Carlos Williams
wrote a poem about a grocery list.
I wondered what happened to it.
Maybe it was in some museum in Rome.
Maybe a thief stole it in the night.

Sometimes we don’t know why things
are gone,
or if they ever come back.

People are like this.

Hmmm.

Wish I could write poetry.

Oh, and I wish my sister wouldn't eat all of my candy.

Do Not Feed the Bears.

My mind is corporate.
I speak little.
My heart is broken in two pieces.
Like shards of glass,
I take them out and throw them
down a well.

In Africa, they do not have water.
In Africa, the children have no shoes.
Think about your thoughts before you do
them.
Think about sorrow’s forbidden muse.

My friend is in the hospital
and has been for seven days straight.
They fixed his heart and lungs,
they fixed the arch in his forehead.

The sign outside reads "Do not feed the
bears."
Sometimes, I forget that part,
they are harmless as fleas.

Stars and Rivers.

The rivers are forgotten dreams.
Misplaced and misshapen as birds, gouges

on shadows of spirals and time clocks.
Where you are is not where I should be.

The palm tree in your backyard-
looks like it needs watering.

I drift on a lonely fog, my mind incorporate
as a bog. Clouds wrap around congruent

shapes, mathematical shapes
that crisscross
blue signatures and blue flowers.

I awaken to a pelican barking in the night,

at sea lions on a warm rock. The sea lions
shine like moon stars and snow saturates
the trees-

Good poetry web site.

www.poems.com

;d

I think for myself, Mom. Thanks.

Sonnet.

I was reading Samuel Taylor Coleridge's essay on Romeo and Juliet and I wrote a sonnet.

I have written some before but they are awful. Here it is:

Ode to the passes of the symmetry,
that revere in greatness and in grandness-
taught with the sameness of the hand,
I revere your heart, you cometh less!
Hark! Devil’s cruel hand! That gaveth
the dew that tarnishes the land-
a bitter dream of revelation,
a begotten hand,
a bird perches near a ledge,
and eats all the berries from the hedge.

The trees are bare; the sounds fold,
churning the water of tarnished gold.

Just for references.

Rattle rejected my poems.

No surprise there.

Sometimes I wonder if poetry is fading from literature. :/

Muse.

If you are in fact a blank piece of paper
where are the words? Where is the flower

that snuffs out the bread, where is the
bold metaphor that calls to me

in the dark of the night, wanting to be written,
waiting to be heard? I have
not eaten the bread yet nor have I sniffed

the life out of the flower,
the beginning of a new poem, the beginning of
something that has not yet been written.


(Found this old poem, for your reading.)

Mammals in the Driveway.

I fear the porpoise on the lake will
melt into oblivion and the day will not come open
like shadows stardust withers in plain sight
I move my garbage
can to the
middle of the driveway
Momma comes up the drive and
asks Where? Where?
Her eyes like stars

sometimes I rush into things I am not ready for
and I feel like taking the time to look at different
web sites on the Internet like myspace
and sometimes I stare out
the classroom window and dream of walking
hand in hand with a perfect stranger
but the words never come out right

Another Day.

Tomorrow a new day will come and I will
not be ready.
Ready for what, I don’t know.

Ready for who, I cannot say. I used to write
mysteries on the backs of used napkins
and then I spread them into the wind like
leaves in summer.

Tomorrow the world will be ready for me,
and I will sing to the moon and kiss the stars

my hands open and embracing the world
I have come to know as myself.
The date is marked on my calendar. The night
is of shooting stars.
I avoid broken windows and messed-up
bicycles.
Sometimes, I wish to reach
out my arms.

My New Story.

It is about 10,000 words at the moment. I hope I can get to 15 thousand.

jordan complained,

Jordan complained she could not breathe well-
the doctor said it was asthma.
The sun was shining down.
She stood in the doorway of the living room,
holding a plate of bread, looking tired
and torn.

Jordan complained there was no way for
her to get around. Her mother bought
her a scooter, and hid it in the garage
until her birthday.

Jordan found it before the present was
given to her-her mother was happy
she found it first, and gave her an extra
candle on her cake.

Jordan liked magazines. Her father bought
her a magazine every month-usually "Vogue,"
or some other fashion magazine he finds
at the dentist's office where he works.

Jordan likes.

On editing.

Some of these poems are kind of terrible, I know, but they are just my "first" drafts, not my final versions. The final versions will be written when I'm old and gray.

The Woman With Yellow Tulips,

who was not my mother, sat on the porch leafing through a tattered magazine,
Newsweek. She said something about polar bears and the news;
cut the faces out and paste them in her scrapbook.
She loved scrapbooks, and had dozens of them in
her bookcase upstairs, where the grandfather clock sat next to
it,
the clock hands that do not turn clockwise. I wondered if it was broken.
The repairman said it was not, that it just liked to go that way on its
own accord like apples or oranges did sometimes.

The faded trunk from World War II rests at the head of the stairs,
gathering dust and mildew and who knows what else. It contains postcards
from Germany, Spain, and Nebraska, where my father was located
during the war. War is terrible.
The history teacher taught me
this, he has large lips and eyes like saucers. He still teaches at
the same school to this day, trying to teach his students about the Depression.
He hopes there will not be another one.

My dog, Mr. Parkins, barks outside, hoping to bond
with the squirrel chattering
in the trees.

The woman with yellow tulips speaks of corruption; of greed;
of self preservation. Her grandmother lived on an Indian reservation
in the thirties and saw harsh things. She did not remember the wolves.
Or the memo stuck on the refrigerator, reminding her to pick up the
tomatoes from the garden.

On the Train.

The shadows on the ground mark the days that past:
Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and
every day in between.
I get on a train.

The gently swaying of the
cars lulls me to sleep.
It is hot outside; the day has just seen rain.

My heart beats fast; sweat rolls down my back.
I force myself to relax, relax,
think about other things
for a change, other than
myself.

Writing Update.

I do not feel like posting a new poem. I have a headache and an earache, but I AM working on my new short story, "Prey." I have eight thousand words. I have a laptop now but the ac adapter broke and I have been trying to find the right one. :( It proves to be exceedingly difficult.

Conversations With My Mother.

My mother calls me while she is at work,
and chats about the weather and the war in
Iraq.
She says she has seen thirteen patients in
four hours-mostly the elderly who complained
about everything from applesauce to
the climate change in New Zealand.

I do not have a job. I am a freelance artist,
and worked ten to seven pm every day,
painting pictures that will be thrown in the
trash later, just because I didn’t like them.

I only managed to sell one painting when
I was seven years old, and my grandmother
gave me fifty cents for a portrait of herself
I had drawn at school.

I remembered school. The place with the desks,
and the books you could take home.
My mother is still chatting away, on and on and on.
I looked out the window at the
flower on the windowsill,
and thought about Israel.

My Father Builds Houses Out of Driftwood.

My father has a brain tumor.
He lives in an apartment in Pontiac,
building houses out of pieces of driftwood
he found on Lake Michigan one summer,
back when he was a trucker, back when
they hadn’t yet to diagnose him with
cancer,
back when he thought he had more time.

His mind is somewhere else-on his mother,
God rest her soul; on the blue truck in
the parking lot, that sits and rusts; and on
the train that whizzes by on train tracks
down the street, near the old train depot
that was closed down.

Everything is closing down in Michigan;
from the stores; to the banks; to the flower shop.
No one wants to live here anymore.
No one wants to be the one to tell their grandchildren
they failed at peace, that they failed at everything.

They give each other questioning looks, "Who’s going
to tell them we failed first?"

New Story.

I am working on a couple new stories now.

One of them is called "Prey," about vampires; one is about werewolves; and I am still working on "Horn of Neverwhen" and 'Forge of Magic, Bind of Bone."

A turtle walks.

A box turtle walks across the parking lot.
It is going slow, slower than a jack rabbit.
A car drives by, barely missing it,
I scoop it up and place it on my front
lawn.

I hurry inside to tell my sister, who is making
a pot of macaroni and cheese on the stove.
She says I should have brought it inside;
I tell her it belongs outside, in the sunshine,
where the children run, jump, and play.

I wonder if it belongs to them.
I wonder if it belongs to nature.

My sister stirs the macaroni on the stove.
She says "Be right back" and goes outside to
find the turtle; it is not there anymore.
I wonder where it has gone.

The Biscuit Maker.

I make biscuits every morning at the
bakery in Flint.
This has been my job for seventeen years.
Before that, I worked as a clerk at Payless
in Savannah, Georgia-we moved to Michigan
after my husband lost his job as a ups worker.

I was sad about that for awhile, sad we
lived off of food stamps and breadcrumbs
fighting for food like the pigeons
in the parking lot of a Walmart
store,
when all I wanted to do was make friends
and eat good food.

Every day I go into work and counted my blessings,
even though shaping the flour is even harder
than dealing with the customers who came in,
especially the young ones who want things Now, now,
now.

I wake up at six in the morning to go down to the
bakery,
where Darius, the manager, just opened the shop.
He was forty-five, three years younger than me.
It was insulting that he had a better life than me-
a wife; three kids; a nice home and car.

I have to work for everything I get, and even then,
it just isn't much.

About Luck.

Luck will not find us here.
I have fought for hours with luck.
I have said luck is something we cannot
use-luck has fought us back.

Some people run out of luck.
Other people have no luck to give.
Some people use logic and cognitive ability
to get where they want to go.

Others use money.
And looks.

Sometimes, it has something
to do with timing.

Other times, I see myself standing,
standing on the cliff of the ocean,
looking down into it.

Sometimes, I wish I was someone else.

When We Forget.

My problem is with forgetting.
Everyone forgets everything-lunch; breakfast; an old grandfather
clock that was left in someone’s attic, years ago, a grandfather
clock that no longer runs, a grandfather clock that is ancient as
the French and Indian War.
My problem is with forgetting.
How Aunt Sarah forgets my birthday; forgets to send out Christmas
cards every three years; forgets the letters in her license plate.
She always remembers the numbers, why she forgets the letters,
I don’t know.
Sometimes, I refuse to believe I am smart.
That I am going nowhere. Every day I believe this.
I am going nowhere. I don’t have a car. My apartment is filled
with alcoholic nomads.
Every day I look up at the sky and see the darkness behind
the puffy clouds and wonder why God created a mess-of brains,
guts, and gills-well, not necessarily gills.
I, too, forget birthdays sometimes.
My Cousin William thinks it’s dumb.

For references.

I just started writing a mystery story and I am calling it "The Man Under the Stairs."

It is about an elderly woman who has to find a missing manuscript.

I AM NOW ON AMAZON.COM!!

My self-published book is now on amazon.com.

BUY IT NOW!!!

Look under my name.

I need to get crackin' on my fiction books, my scripts, and new songs *sigh.*

For references.

I was rejected by "Pure Francis" two days ago.

I sent one story submission to "Flash Fiction Online."

Lichenberg, Germany, April 1978.

It was cold. I stood on the doorstep of
my house, and looked at the blue car
sitting in the driveway. It has not been
running for years-my Uncle Samuel
said he would fix it later, and never got
around to it.

I don’t know why I trusted him with it.
He’s an American, aren’t Americans supposed
to be efficient with cars? I never knew about
about that part.

My fridge is getting low on cold foods.
The cows are in the barn, mooing for attention.

Winter comes in six short months. I hurry down
the steps and wonder why I am hurrying.

The Sky Is Full.

The sky is full of corn flower clouds.
The wind moans
like a guest-beating
at the back door of
the summer house.

No more guests for the week. They have
all gone home due to the power outage
from the storm,
that rose from the west
and beat against the windows

like invisible hands.

Sometimes, things seem to change.
Other times, the wind stops blowing.

Note to self.

Note to self: Submissions for the "Thirty-First Bird Review" starts on June 1st.

I have five poems ready.

Stars and a Pendulum.

I fling myself to the stars.
In the night, the stars shine down.
The universe goes around and around like
a pendulum-

my mind is in constant rotation.
Darkness enters my heart. I am nothing,
compared to the vastness of space
that is cold as my ego.

I am an iceberg.

I crash against the shore of a stormy sea.
I am a bird. I fly through the air and land
on a lone island, inhabited by men named
Darwin and Washington.

This is my story. I retell it to old men in
coffee shops and bookstores.

The Night wears down.

I am distant.

New Story.

I finished writing my new story entitled "We Are the Furries." I finished the first draft, anyway, about a werewolf who lives with another werewolf who turns back into a human. I am probably going to turn it into a novel after I finish "The Horn of Neverwhen."

A Stroke of Genius.

When I was two, the letters "B" and "L"
struck in my mind like a flash of lightning-
some say it was a strike of genius, my professor
says it’s bullshit.

I don’t really understand bullshit. Or why people
use it as an excuse when they don’t understand
how to do the right thing-the right thing is never
written in any books; it is stamped on your knee cap
like a badge of courage, or
wrapped inside your heart. It’s something you can’t see.

Some people say I don’t know anything. I think they
are right. How could a two year old know something
a grown up should know, but doesn’t?
How could
a seventeen year old? How could, how could-

How could the dash in a sentence have so many rules?
All the rules mean shit when you’re by yourself. All bets
are off.

I don’t believe in bullshit. There’s simply too much drama
attached to it.

Losing Faith.

He laughs at things that are intelligent.
He thinks the whole world owes him something.
I tell him they don't.
He insists they do-and decides to take it further
by having a baby with a dark-haired woman
with too much lip, whose intelligence is sub-par,
and whose tattoos are jaded, at best; she was
trying to impress him when they first met,
she wanted a husband, she says, not a lover.
She does not have faith in the system.

I, myself, prefer a lover, not a husband.
I prefer long walks on the
beach, talking about sweet sorrows and the
horrible killing of the whales
and the mating of the elephants
in long exhausted Africa, where the Rwandans and
Congolese people are trying to survive on little
or nothing at all.

I prefer making dinner at home to going out.
I prefer movies at the theater to a DVD player.
I prefer a lot of things. That doesn’t mean I’m
going to get it. I’m not loud, or boisterous,
or rude; that’s what men prefer nowadays.
At least that's what I read in an article in The New York Times.

I am a quiet woman in a room full of light and color
and the darkness is prominent. Nothing can be done
about this. No one says anything about anything.

Wonder.

I wonder if Stephanie Meyer thought of Chopin's "Nocturne" when she was thinking of the title for her stories.

Just for references.

I sent five poems to a magazine entitled "Pure Francis."

A Home Divided: a short story.

Sarin, Alabama, 1965.

I was a child nearing thirteen and every day I became weaker and weaker. He said my vital signs were weaker than a little girl’s and I shan’t have much longer to live. This was not the news I was looking for. I sat on the edge of the hospital bed, my legs dangling over it like branches swaying in the wind and all the while my mother wept at the doctor with the big head and the glistening face and the ears that stuck out like a rabbit’s. It was Saturday, and I should have been playing outside with all the other kids but I wasn’t. I didn’t know why I couldn’t, at least not at the time.

Most doctor’s offices were closed on Saturdays and we took the bus ride all the way down to the hospital in Sarin, the one with the giant statues and the garden out front and the lake that shone like mirrors. While my mother and the doctor chattered on and on about my past medical history, I looked at the paintings on the wall and imagined I was somewhere else, maybe in the woods with a friend or fishing with my uncle.

My uncle Seamus had a condition, too. He had a broken hip and recently had to get a wheelchair. I told him he didn’t need one but he didn’t listen and spent his time wheeling around the kitchen in it because the living room is too cluttered with junk. He hired a maid-a black woman with wide breasts-to clean it every Sunday but she was slow and sloppy with her work and he liked to point his cane at her and yell out swear words I wasn’t supposed to hear.

When I heard this I always giggled behind my hands. It was very funny to me to hear an old man swear like that. He thought it was funny, too. My father would not think it was so funny. I did not know where he was. I wished he was with me all the time.

Dr. Smith was not an ugly man. He had a bunch of degrees on the wall and his stethoscope was cold and shone like the moon at night. He kissed my forehead and gave me a red sucker and said I should take it easy, that surgery wouldn’t be necessary. My mother asked me how long I had.

Dr. Smith gave her a long look over my head, like they were sharing some kind of secret, and said he didn’t know. She nodded, relenting. Grabbing my hand, she dragged me back down to the bus, carrying the prescription he wrote to me like a shield, and we climbed aboard and smiled at the bus driver with the scary eyes and bunched-up shirt that showed too much. The bus driver did not speak to us. He never did, but that didn’t stop my mother from trying to be friendly.

"Hello, sir," she said. "I hope you are doing fine. As you can see, my girl’s got cancer, please drive real slow. She gets sick easily."

He didn’t answer.

We sat in the middle of the bus. The seats were too high up for me.

My legs dangled over the side and my mother told me we were going to go to the store to get my medicine, she said it was medicine to make me feel better and the reason I was feeling terrible was because I had something called leukemia. She said it meant I was special in a way that was different from the other kids and that I shouldn’t worry and that God took care of special children like me.

She said I didn’t have to go to school anymore and that she would teach me. I made a face. I liked school especially this boy named Benjamin Thomas Reed, who liked to poke me in the back and said things that were supposed to sound mean but wasn’t. Once he said I was "resilient" and I looked up the word in the dictionary and it was a good word, not a bad one. I asked him where he got the word from and he said from some old man at Kern’s. Kern was the pharmacy downtown.

"What about Father, Mama?" I wanted to know.

Maybe Father could convince Mama that it was okay to go to school.

"Father’s in the army," she answered shortly, and stared out the window at the passing cars and the buildings that didn’t move. She didn’t like to talk about Father’s work. I suppose it made her jealous.

I didn’t know what to say to that. My father should be home with me, not in some stupid army that didn’t know anything about him.

*

Later that evening, after supper, I was tired. My mother took me upstairs and put me to bed and gave me medicine from a spoon. I made a face. "Yuck!" I said, and she scolded me, saying the medicine was given to doctors by God and that it will make me good as new. I said I hoped so. I said I wished I knew how to feel better.

My eyes closed.

I woke to the sound of the television downstairs. I climbed out of bed and ran downstairs to see Uncle Ben watching tv, his belly laughing with the comedian on the set. Our tv was in black and white. I climbed up on his lap and asked him what he was doing here and he said he was helping Mama mow the lawn. I told him the doctor said I had leukemia and he said he was very sorry and he brought Mama a pie. It was sitting on the table in the kitchen.

"I don’t feel like eating right now," I told him.

He patted my back. "There, there, baby," he said soothingly. "May God soothe your soul."

Mama came home from work and Uncle Ben cut the pie and gave me a piece. It was a good pie, with large red cherries full of sugar and preserves and crust that melted like butter in my mouth. I took my medicine again and Bobby Jones came over and we played in the backyard until dusk, when the fireflies turned on their lights to light up the night sky and filled the evening with shadows. They danced away my sorrows.

THE END.

"The Sims 3" comes out in June!

I love that game. It helps me with characterization and story plots.

Statue of David.

In your garden, there is a statue
of David-a spectacular masterpiece,
a refined piece of artwork..

When I come to visit your garden,
I forget all about the flowers,
I forget all about the birds who flock for miles
to visit your bird house; they know it is the best
around, they’ve read all about it.

I marvel at the art of a living god, not the
statue of David,
but the very art of Nature, how it can carve
a single multiple pattern in a green leaf,
how the squirrel seems to know just where
he left his secret stash of nuts from last year.

Such wonders I have gazed upon
in this still morning; I can’t wait
to write them all down.
At tea time, we drink rosemary tea and ate
hors d’voures. A yellow-tailed butterfly lands
on the tea pot, searching for sweet necter of its own.
Far-off, we hear the drone of bees,
who chatter on and on about Michelangelo.
It felt like I could remember what
it felt like

To remember, to forget something
I could not see standing outside of myself,
Staring, blankly staring at the
Front porch, at the back door,
At a spot inside myself I just
Can’t reach.

(Written when I was 22, I believe-I don't have any new stuff yet.)

Visit To California.

The sea lions sun on a warm rock in San Francisco.
I am on Pier 41, leaning over the railing, taking pictures
of the animals, the water, and Alcatraz-the place
that is haunted by too much pigeon shit. It costs one hundred
dollars to take a ferry over. I decline the offer from
a man wearing a black hat.

I can hear the sea lions calling me from where I stand-they
sound like the whirring blade of a ceiling fan.

This is my 49th visit to California. I live in Toledo, Ohio,
twenty minutes away from the turnpike off of
Denny’s farm.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Denny’s horses;
I’m sure they are still there, their tails waving lazily
in the warm wind, their nostrils heaving in and out.
All I own is an ant farm.

My Aunt Mary’s Quilts.

My father got another quilt from his sister, Mary,
today.

She knits quilts day in and day out and sells
them for a small profit at the Summit Mall.
The new one is blue with yellow tassels-
it reminds me of the sunny sky. It reminds me
of daisies and good times with aunts and uncles
at picnics and Christmas dinner.

My aunt Mary is 59 going on 60. She is a skinny
woman with brown hair and glasses and
a quiet demeanor, as if she sees more than
the rest of us, as if she knows more than her brother.
She is making another quilt-it is halfway finished.

One day, she says, she hopes to quilt the moon.

I tell her this is a big dream. She replies that she understands.

Synopsis for "Forge of Magic, Bind of Bone."

Forge of Magic, Bind of Bone.

The Necromancer resorts back to being a more animal-like creature and takes shelter in a wizard's barn.

Torrance Interwell finds out he is a Lightweaver; not many Elves are Lightweavers.

Alira has the ability to see what the Necromancer sees. She does not like it-much.

Nerev is annoyed by his brother’s constant negativity spiral.

Sebastian begins to realize there is no middle ground when it comes to honor and protection.

More war in the Eastern Kingdoms. The winter months are harsh and dangerous & survival is cruel and demanding. Damsel tries to forge closer relationships w/ the dragons and is having little success; dragons are warm-blooded creatures and hate the cold.

King Herod realizes the entire castle was put under a spell by the Necromancer-by accident. He treks to the Tower of High Sorcery to reverse the spell.

Poetry Update.

I have not written any new poems because I am working on both my novels:

"Horn of Neverwhen."

"Forge of Magic, Bind of Bone." (sequel to "Wizard's Alchemy," which I sent to Baen Books.)

Writing novels makes me a bit tired-however, I did send out a few songs to Roadrunner Records, and I am sending out some country songs to a different music company.

He said, I don’t.

He said, I don’t have time for you.
The wind said, We don’t want you to be witty.
I asked him what he wanted.
He said he wanted a public space.
The sky is large with the hugeness of space.
Tears smack in the dirt.
Gardens are growing. In Jackson, Tennessee,
I see you wandering in your backyard,
holding a trowel, digging in the dirt.
You look like you’re upset.
A deer peeks in through the trees,
its eyes round and large like the moon.
He said I wished you would write poetry.
I replied that I could.
He didn’t believe me. Asked to see some proof.
I showed him the garden; my trowel;
and the doe sitting like a statue in the trees.
He said that wasn’t enough.
I told him to move,
this was not the right lesson
on flowers.
I said I liked daisies.

i am not a genius.

I am not a genius-the professor claims-scribbling the words
on the chalkboard in the classroom,
students filing in and taking their seats. One student brings him
an orange instead of an apple,
and he eats it while sitting in his swiveling chair, spewing shit
about the temperature in Great Britain or Canada.
*
I only listen half-heartedly. I scribble other words in
my notebook-words like "molasses," "airplane," and "brigade,"
words that sound out of tune and not quite right.
It’s almost time to go. We write a paper on thermodynamics.
I pick up my books, and we gather in
the hallway like moths gather around a flame,
hoping for the warmth of another celestial body.

Just for references...

I sent a submission to "ugly cousin" today. Four poems.

Unrequited Bitterness.

The only movies you have are the ones in your head.
The bodies of mothballs litter the floor. My mother trips
over one of them on her way outside-there is no foolishness, only things
that are wrought, discovering the shadows that pinpoint each
star. In the sky, the pigeons flock, clouds move gently
toward broken meadows.

I have called myself out on a lot of things. Like licorice and
broken game systems. I didn’t mean the things I said,
the words were something I said out of anger. Bitter loneliness
flocks the island. I trip on my own two feet on the way
up the stairs. Love is in the air but I don’t feel it.

On Walden.

I think Henry David Thoreau only went to live in the woods (1845 I believe), because he lacked communication skills and was considered an outcast among his friends and family; he probably suffered from bouts of depression and malnutrition.    Usually people who write that much are considered outcasts and people are not very friendly towards them because they are educated and talk like a book.  It happens to the best of us.  I'm sure he fought a lot with his parents when he was a child-or he was rather obedient and got sick of it.  I sure would have.  Being obedient to parents who only care when they feel like it is not really the way to go.

Sent out another submission.

I sent out four more poems to "Rattle" magazine.  Instead of listing publishing credits, I sent them without it.  Maybe that is more professional.  We'll see.

On Pride and Prejudice.

I'm reading Pride and Prejudice.

I've never read such drivel in my life.

Emotional Rollercoaster.

you leave me tethered, entwined in a spiral.
I shake your hand-
you say that the night is cold.

I wake in my bedroom, now.

I am alone, sleeping next to a cold pillow.
The days and nights are burning
with the putrid smell of rain,
my hand moves in front of my face,
the dog awakens next door.
She said, The cornflowers are growing!

To make conversation.
I agree halfheartedly, but I am not
convinced.

That flesh is flesh, and words are words.

As Much As I Love You.

As much as I love you, I have let you go.
The birds sing in roses and gardens.
The sliver of moon brushes across a midnight
sky.
I see you once every seventy years.
Your tears fall softly down your face.

As much as I love you, I have let you go.
You are quiet in your grace.
When you let the roses in,
you let in the whole wide universe.