I walk a tightrope that rivals a spider web.
breathe me in, see me out.
the raindrops sting when they want to,
needles into fleshy thumbs.
love these hands which visit peace,
for they are dry and chapped
as my unquiet lips
that relay secrets, better left
unspun and elongated.
judge me harshly,
if you have the time.
take me through the scarlet
and all the confetti, pink and flat
across dappled paths
downtrodden with whispers
and flooded with sighs of white.
I yell the lyrics authored by youth.
see me past all you’ve known.
the water rushes as the sky defies,
orchids filling modest homes.
Cat No. 127 of the 500 Cats Project
Hello, all! I hope you are well. I thought I might share this month’s publications, for anyone interested in reading them.
Ghost City Review published “Unstrung Pearls” at the beginning of March. Find it here.
Soft Cartel offers a fantastic assortment of short stories, poetry, and artwork. “Atún” is a prose piece about a cat, childhood, loss, and communal complacency. Read it here.
Maudlin House features another short story, “Unchanged Melodies.” I wrote this piece a few years ago. It is somewhat autobiographical, and is based on my childhood experiences living overseas on a military base. Much of the story is drawn from my memories of a classmate with autism who was often ridiculed, feared, and generally misunderstood by those around him. Check it out here.
Thank you so much for your readership and support. Gradually, I’ll be concentrating on more short fiction, with a focus on color and emotional acuity.
Have a good day,
coming from ambivalence,
looking right to left, and then
left to right as if reading some
language I’ve become too
the day becomes gray
and the ground feels
sharp, harsh enough
to awaken several snails,
tenacious in their nap time
and steady in solemn thought.
the stop signs blend into
some tangerine sunset, six
sides fallen onto the hot surface
as I look over my shoulder
to contest your fear.
Cat No. 126 of the 500 Cats Project
nothing short of questionable.
wrapped in the glee felt in snowflakes’
kisses, I slowly blink and breathe
in time with a bicycle’s push through
summer unbound, summer that has thrusted
its demands onto hope that rings
against clear, but speckled glass.
the thinnest twigs are broken.
tennis balls roll into candied curbs
bright as the brick of a first home,
and tulips sit in aquamarine cups once
used to serve spry ice cream and appease
grand expectations of the younger crowd,
hurrying into endeavors sharp and unplanned.
hearing the static, pining to dream.
Cat No. 125 of the 500 Cats Project
I wanted to let you know that I have a short story featured in Queen Mob’s Teahouse. It is titled “The Conditional Gift,” and was written in late 2016. You can give it a read here. I suggest listening to alt-J’s “Something Good,” while you’re at it. A big thanks to Jessica Sequeira, who currently serves as fiction editor. I highly recommend her novel, A Furious Oyster, particularly if you are a fan of Pablo Neruda.
I can’t thank you all enough for your continued support of my writing. I’m glad to have grown familiar with just how invigoratingly addictive creative exploration can be.
In 2015, I originally wrote a 750-word draft of a piece that is now quite dear to me. It is titled, “Forever, the Little Girl,” and after several rounds of additions and subtractions, this story has found its home in Burning House Press. Prolific poet Bola Opaleke serves as January’s editor, compiling works that illustrate faith, faithlessness, and/or divinity. Immense thanks goes to Bola for his consideration and acceptance of my work.
You can read the piece here. Thanks to BHP, I’ve grown more acquainted with experimental writers, and I’ve enjoyed encountering all sorts of life that sprout from the journal’s monthly themes. Give the journal a look, and have as good a time as the relaxing walnut photographed above.
lavender under the pillow
informs me that I’ve learned
a more efficient method
for sound reflection.
puddles at the end
ripple, while nimble
ants peer over the edge
of frayed leaves, dry
and bloodless, like
shells and hollow time.
I am the guest.
you are my keeper.
shadows grow thin
as clocks strike six.
Cats No. 123 and 124 of the 500 Cats Project