I’ve been writing my whole life. Since I was 12 years old. I didn’t say I’ve been writing anything good since that age, but at least I’ve been putting in the practice. I have tax boxes filled with all my old, mostly angry, poems. Angry because I didn’t have the greatest early life. Now, my life is good — I’m happy to report. That doesn’t necessarily make me “happy,” but I am grateful, although, I feel like I’d always been grateful from the start.
I am not posting a lot of prose on this site, not because I don’t have a ton to chose from, but because I wish to publish it elsewhere, for “reals.” It’s not a good idea to have those entries floating around on the Internet when you want to do that. I’ve only really been published once, aside from small rags from days gone by. It was a small selection of poems and illustrations, Monsters on Jasmine St., and that was an edition with Bottle of Smoke Press out of New York.
The two poems I have posted, Houses (already published as an Artist Book), and The Conversation (new-ish, and never been published), are just samples. I may post another, sort of grimy one, to give an example of that style too, but we’ll see.
The short story, Maybe Magic Things is an auto-bio fiction story adapted from my upcoming book. The articles are super old and I may take them down.
Anywho… thanks for reading.