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Fiction & Poetry


The Literary Bohemian, April 2009

The way the gondoliers stare at blondes,
Makes me glad to be dark-haired.  Grace, her fair skin
Purpling in the sun, handed her glinting token
To the guard at the gate, who couldn’t take his eyes off her.
He followed her through the streets after she disembarked
From the white canopy of the vaporetto, called her name
In the market outside the dank cathedral.  Meanwhile,
She tossed a blue paper shawl over her knees and scurried
In under the sign of the Cross, slinking into an alcove
That sat silent except for the sound of the buried saints’ breathing.

Read the rest in the "Literary Bohemian."

Surreal Strokes

The Harrow, 2002

I suppose you could say that my behavior slipped when Moxie ran away. Granted, Moxie wasn't much. But she was all I had, and she'd known all the people who'd left me beforehand. After all, hadn't she lived with Mom and Dad? And then when Mom died and Dad went to Japan, hadn't she lived with my brother, and all his kids? And when Pete managed to get himself hit by a drunk driver, Moxie had stayed with his daughter Ann for a while. Until Ann's boyfriend dumped her and Ann tried to overdose on Tylenol. Honestly. Tylenol? Who overdoses on Tylenol? They put Ann into some sort of rehab, but cats aren't allowed. So Moxie came to me. I swear, in the past five years, Moxie and I have seen just about everything. Except maybe those freak liposuction accidents that mow women down like wheat these days. Whatever. At least nobody I know woke up in a bathtub full of ice with both their kidneys removed...

Read the rest in "The Harrow."