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Influences
Academic Interests
Published Poetry
Favorite Reads
Favorite Links
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| Influences |
Academic Interests |
Published Poetry |
Favorite Reads |
Favorite Links |
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Published
Poetry |
This page features the poetry that I have had published in
various literature magazines. They are listed in chronological
order of publication. If you want a copy of the actual magazine,
contact me. Other poetical honors: my poems "Invitation for
a Cognitive Miser," "John Stuart Mill in Late 80s Seattle, Washington,"
and "Sprigs of Mint" won me third place in the Capital University Phi
Beta Fine Arts Competition on March 14, 2005. Also, this year at
Capital's Undergraduate Honors Convocation, I was awarded the Adeladie
Hinkle Award for Creative Writing.
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| Why Doesn't the
Bible Have Pictures published in the 2003 Issue of Dionysia We used to play Sardines in church. Squeezing myself in dusty, mildewed corners wedged behind the piano, or maybe under the organ. I stared at the lines in the wood, and they told me stories, but they couldn't tell me why Jesus didn't have a wife. Years later, in the church bathroom I opened up my own chapstick, strawberry, improving the goldenrod stalls with entertaining images that are worth a thousand parables, a dotted wall full of nipples. Why doesn't the Bible have pictures? Do churches have cameras in bathrooms? I always look for cameras in bathrooms. If there's a camera, I want the tape. Maybe it would show me, the only one who can move like she knows what she wants, and she's not afraid to get it. I move chapstick to my own body, tattooing it. A leper like the Bible says. A sinner like my father says. I crush the chapstick like original sin, grope my own breasts, beauty just like dusty wreaths. |
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Children of the
Divorcee I was jealous of Timmy. Months later the VCR repair man the
eternal darkness I look at my cat
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| Emily Dickinson on
High Street published in the Summer 2003 Issue of Intersections (Appeared under the title "Emily Dickinson in Columbus, Ohio") When Emily Dickinson woke up on the COTA, she thought that the world had ended, and her violets were gone forever. In a seat, by papers with curled edges, she strained to see outside grime and take in the contemporary world. An old black woman who never showered sat beside her, and the stench crowded her nostrils. She tried to move, but the woman refused to provide ample room. Unladylike, Emily broke free by tramping over soiled seats and leaping over grocery bags. People became disagreeable with her once again, so she irritably pushed aside the sweeping crowd in a search for Beauty and got off on High Street. She tried a place with flashing lights and, keeping an open mind, tasted actual brewed liquor. She said goodbye to her shell and decided to live it up a little. She was in charge now—she would tell them all; she could defy all of society, wait for the world to whittle away into nothing. She was going to read what she wanted and say what she wanted—a noncommittal life to everyone but herself. Undaunted, she embraced life and ran around town, quitted the act of reclusive-drama queen-ghost, and haunted boldly all those who crossed her path. Around certain streets, she was a legend—her eyes inciting fear for many, and most keenly avoided her newfound wrath. She was queen until a woman, exciting feelings in her once forgotten, offered her a crude bouquet of violets. Emily recalled the inviting search for Beauty and smashed the plentitude for rudely continuing its existence. Beauty had not stopped for her death, but crawled bravely onward. Her imaginary bubble was popped, the safety of her cruel alabaster chambers collapsed, and, as mankind moved onward, her power was cropped. |
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Family Practice He carefully removed two of his daughter's bottom teeth to make way for a straw. By the time the adult teeth grew in, there would be no need for braces anyway; she would be trained then. He created pores in the enamel with a special gel. They absorbed the glue and secured brackets to her teeth as she breathed peacefully. He wove the thickest wire he had in perfect pattern: top molar to bottom, bicuspid to bicuspid. It was not uncommon to see braces on children now; she would be no different from her kindergarten classmates except that she would never scream, nor argue, nor produce any utterance to cause irritation until that phase was completely crushed from her system. |
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Uncleansed published in the 2004 Issue of Dionysia Cajun rice crust, ground beef soaking in remnants of dehydrated tomato sauce, scrambled eggs that have become one with their frying pan emit an odor of bromopea and son of a bitch. The chunks becloud the water as they soak— I try to shed myself of all the self-righteous bullshit which, like those saturated chunks, defiles the beauty of the brain until I doubt the integrity of a philosophy which makes perfect sense to me. The accusations pile up: smart people thinking bad things, atheists have no beliefs. Negativity married to negativity. Second-hand lives joined with life, emaciating it. Indictments divorced from facts— production is pathetic, intellectual property does not exist. The bad breath stench pollutes the entire kitchen, until I am prepared to give way, let my brain sleep, the titubation of my walk and the parallel unsteadiness of my will submitting to everyone else’s methods, until I let the stink and the goddamned dishes remain uncleansed. |
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Invitation for a Cognitive Miser published in the 2004 Issue of The Albion Review is dead! A celebration will commence immediately. Ad Hominem and his cousin Ad Ignorantiam will host. All should attend, but the excuse will prevail in all circumstances, as proving reasonable doubt provides instant justification of any action. The menu shall consist of Threat with sides of Guilt and Irrelevant Conclusion. Dress should omit all true Arguments, but you best wear your Opinion on your ass! Begging the Question is an appropriate accent. Entertainment shall feature the slaughter of Logic. Primary weapons include: “I feel” and “Everyone has their own opinion.” Don't worry, the Quest for Guilt Removal has been eliminated from the program— experience instead the Mighty Blame Shift! Whoever can dish out the biggest, thickest, hot helping of guilt wins regardless! Finally, the evening will conclude an Auction of Self, so make sure to bring everything that has been rightfully earned! RSVP before the age of six to ensure your place among the masses. |
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Selma published in the 2005 Issue of Dionysia I like it when my son collects cocoons, and I can hold them between my fingers, waiting for the slightest quiver beneath the thin layer of woven fibers. It twitches and my heart twitches with it, not leaping, not failing like my eyes. Did you ever have a sense that someone was there, but you couldn't see him? Day by day as my eyes dimmed, I would figure out small tests for myself: could I count the petals on the daffodils? measure the sugar without touching the measuring cup? fill the sink with suds and water without wetting the counter top? Could I see the crack in the sidewalk? I would make up stories: Today I cannot see the crack because it is too hot— the old gum has melted on the cement, oozed into all of the cracks, making them perfect, like the skin of my baby boy. So handsome now, I can tell, as his voice deepens, deeper than his father's. He describes to me the latest hatching, the colors now vivid somewhere behind the my vacuous iris, a pair of wings fluttering in the breeze, matching my heart as I feel it on my finger, my other hand touching the geography that is the hand of my child. |
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