• Depression is a Bitch

    Do Not Pass “Go”

    I suppose the idea burrowed into my brain during my first upper-division literature course, which makes sense. It was Victorian literature, and the professor was a midwestern transplant who wore loafers to class and introduced Dickens in a way that actually made him interesting to me. She had mentioned her plans to spend the summer abroad in England, touring the homes of all her favorite Victorian writers. You can do that? I thought to myself, as if I had just discovered I was an adult and could eat all the candy I wanted. My imagination began stirring up a misty future that up until that point had been rather blank. That idea never really…

  • Fiction/Poetry

    A Box of Photos

    There was a loud crash in the hallway After pulling out the Parcheesi And other dusty boxes that House fragments of faded memories Falling to the floor                             The photos Spill from the carton                             Fluttering To rest on the floor – – – We come from the land of hibiscus And plastic happiness                             Like so many Verdant kisses, it whispers a Foggy dream of the eternal Whatever you fancy                             If only Dreams were guarantees you could Redeem like coupons                             Exchanging Them one by one like so many Printed promises                             Yet we wither Under a foreign sun                             Languishing Against a backdrop of broken Dreams – – – This one particular snags my…

  • Fiction/Poetry


    He dug himself a hole in the ground a place to burrow dreams for safekeeping while he tended to responsibilities Locked them tightly in a brass tin and kept the key hidden from sight as dreams belong to youth and freedom in an age before lost chances and untraveled roads laid the tin down and shoveled layers of dark earth, blanketing wishes forgotten ambition. Neglecting the hole in the ground trudging in and out of the room that represented the key kept stowed away like buried treasure work clasps wrists together in irons of promises and paychecks a black and white way for which he did not remember asking as years accumulated in…


Get every new post on this blog delivered to your Inbox.

Join other followers: