Publications...
Story: Eating Sushi At Stoplights(Read here)
CRATE (Issue 7, Spring 2011)
Excerpt:
I've been washing clothes for a woman that used to wash mine. And I've been helping her put them on right after she comes out of the bathroom all inside out. And it makes me remember one of her favorite stories to tell used to be about the time I put my rain boots on by myself at daycare. And how I came stomping out to the car all proud and smiling and with the boots on the wrong feet. And how when I got into the car, I said to her, Mom, I put my boots on by myself. And how she said, I see that.
She knew I fucked it up. But she never said anything. It probably wasn't the first time she did that. It definitely wasn't the last.
It's good to have people you can make mistakes in front of.
I've been washing clothes for a woman that used to wash mine. And I've been helping her put them on right after she comes out of the bathroom all inside out. And it makes me remember one of her favorite stories to tell used to be about the time I put my rain boots on by myself at daycare. And how I came stomping out to the car all proud and smiling and with the boots on the wrong feet. And how when I got into the car, I said to her, Mom, I put my boots on by myself. And how she said, I see that.
She knew I fucked it up. But she never said anything. It probably wasn't the first time she did that. It definitely wasn't the last.
It's good to have people you can make mistakes in front of.
Story: All There IsFilthy Gorgeous Things (Scent, January 2011)
Excerpt:
I stopped apologizing the day Monica and I fucked for the first time. There on the hardwood floor of her living room, while her husband and my wife watched us from the couch. I put my palm to her cheek and pushed her head to the side, and let her taste herself on my fingers, let her feel the cold floor boards on her cheek. Resting my face against her neck, I inhaled and tasted the soft, salty bite of her skin. Felonious and arresting, like the piquant balm of a dark whisper. The strands of her black hair clung wetly just below her ear. And the sound of her breath—short, urgent—like gun shots. We fucked strongly. And violently. We fucked unapologetically. Like we were at war. A spectator war, which our spouses were watching, like some streaming news clip. And as my body fit to hers, I released my hold on her and let her turn her head back to me, and her brow furrowed in something like pain and something like delirium and her thin lips opened to let out a noise that was not quite a noise, and as she grabbed my waist tight and she pulled me against her, and as her fingers hurt me and her eyes pierced me, I came inside her, and I felt her release her own pleasure, and I thought, I am not sorry for this.
I stopped apologizing the day Monica and I fucked for the first time. There on the hardwood floor of her living room, while her husband and my wife watched us from the couch. I put my palm to her cheek and pushed her head to the side, and let her taste herself on my fingers, let her feel the cold floor boards on her cheek. Resting my face against her neck, I inhaled and tasted the soft, salty bite of her skin. Felonious and arresting, like the piquant balm of a dark whisper. The strands of her black hair clung wetly just below her ear. And the sound of her breath—short, urgent—like gun shots. We fucked strongly. And violently. We fucked unapologetically. Like we were at war. A spectator war, which our spouses were watching, like some streaming news clip. And as my body fit to hers, I released my hold on her and let her turn her head back to me, and her brow furrowed in something like pain and something like delirium and her thin lips opened to let out a noise that was not quite a noise, and as she grabbed my waist tight and she pulled me against her, and as her fingers hurt me and her eyes pierced me, I came inside her, and I felt her release her own pleasure, and I thought, I am not sorry for this.
Story: Landing PunchesRose & Thorn Journal (Winter 2011)
Excerpt:
My dad bought me a pair of red boxing gloves when I was seven. I would put them on and stand on my bed and pretend I was somebody who would kick somebody's ass. Mostly I was not somebody who would kick somebody's ass. I'm still not. But sometimes I hurt people close to me by accident. I once gave my best friend a black eye with an Atari gaming apparatus. Years later, at my wedding, I got the same friend to put his hand on a scalding hot snifter full of Sambuca. He's still got the scar today. But here's the thing: I stuck my hand on a burning snifter that night, too, because—you want to know a secret that really isn't a secret? I'm best when I'm hurting myself. Pain's always sweetest when it's self-inflicted. And you do it by being careless. Or irrational. Or both. And sometimes there are innocent casualties caught in the crossfire. What I'm trying to say is, if I hurt you, it's not intended. It's just because you were standing too close. Knowing me has consequences.
My dad bought me a pair of red boxing gloves when I was seven. I would put them on and stand on my bed and pretend I was somebody who would kick somebody's ass. Mostly I was not somebody who would kick somebody's ass. I'm still not. But sometimes I hurt people close to me by accident. I once gave my best friend a black eye with an Atari gaming apparatus. Years later, at my wedding, I got the same friend to put his hand on a scalding hot snifter full of Sambuca. He's still got the scar today. But here's the thing: I stuck my hand on a burning snifter that night, too, because—you want to know a secret that really isn't a secret? I'm best when I'm hurting myself. Pain's always sweetest when it's self-inflicted. And you do it by being careless. Or irrational. Or both. And sometimes there are innocent casualties caught in the crossfire. What I'm trying to say is, if I hurt you, it's not intended. It's just because you were standing too close. Knowing me has consequences.
Story: Counting WeightsMiPOesias (Volume 24, Issue 1)
Magcloud
Scribd
Excerpt:
The guy I want to become is a guy I've never met, but I see him at the gym almost every day. He's in his mid to late sixties. He carries a newspaper with him while he works out and he pauses between sets on the weight machines to read from it. He's short and built like a wrestler—in pretty great shape for his years—and he walks kind of hunched, like he's walking into a very strong wind. He always wears a baseball cap and his skin suggests he works outside. He's got hair in places he shouldn't. And no hair in places he should. But his thick white mustache fucking belongs right where it is.
The guy I want to become is a guy I've never met, but I see him at the gym almost every day. He's in his mid to late sixties. He carries a newspaper with him while he works out and he pauses between sets on the weight machines to read from it. He's short and built like a wrestler—in pretty great shape for his years—and he walks kind of hunched, like he's walking into a very strong wind. He always wears a baseball cap and his skin suggests he works outside. He's got hair in places he shouldn't. And no hair in places he should. But his thick white mustache fucking belongs right where it is.