Any port in a storm, but not this one Photo by Tahir Osman The work day fell into the history books as the swinging doors closed behind him. Their echo down the long, bare passageway rang in his ears like the tinnitus that would drive him to near madness years later when gray outran his youth. The cold of the passageway went bone deep despite the … Continue reading Portholes
Riddled through with eyes Dogs my furtive footsteps Creeps my sweating skin Turns me round and around Though, unseen, I think, by any, Or, maybe seen, perhaps, Yet does my anxious mind See shadows in the dark Concealment is my friend My prison too, at that Hidden from prying eyes But nervous of surprise Too fearful to confront Lest give away the deed If blackmail … Continue reading Guilty
They came in the middle of the night. Expletive-screaming teams of jackbooted, black-clad List Enforcers battered down doors. Family pets were shot as Enforcers dispersed to round up sleeping children and parents. Bound and blindfolded, whole families were herded into cattle trucks, crammed in so tight taking a full breath was impossible. The weak and elderly succumbed quickly. They were fortunate. The wailing of terrified … Continue reading The List
Lonely and alone You are seeking to atone For sin not yet borne Continue reading Mental
Draft opening of chapter one of my novel, Olongapo. Black and White On the other side of the brown river the gray town trembles in a dull watercolor of shimmering heat waves. He’s crossed this bridge dozens of times and though the view never changes, it feels like he’s seeing it for the first time. Smog, dirt, and dust mix in a loose conglomeration … Continue reading Olongapo
Birthed in promises unspoken, on a bed of dreams and ghosts, I grasped the pleading in his heart, but faltered at the post; Desperation’s embattled prayer in a father’s grasp for fate, For all of that I could have done it’s too little and too late. Hiding from the ancient child weeping alone inside my head, Looking down at no one, looking up at those … Continue reading Fathers and Sons
Your heart is a sheet of cold, thin ice; Spider cracks zigzag among open veins; Eggshells scatter before my footsteps; On my toes, I step between the cracks and crush the eggshells with my heels. I peel away onionskin layers of you; Vaporous particles explode into my eyes; They stick to fingers and leave them numb; With steel razor taut in my fist, I scrape … Continue reading Mornings, A Halloween Tale
I grip it with my toes That phantasmagoric line between living and dying Behind rise the hairs on my neck Ahead my heart pumps furiously To live is to die Yet I am not finished living I grip the precipice with my toes When I stop living I will die. Precipice Continue reading Precipice
Writers Envy 