Headline Poetry & Press

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Please browse the wonderfully supportive and apt writings found at

Headline Poetry & Press

Here are a few of my personal pieces with the press:

Poetry: In the Morning, We Make a Plant-Based Smoothie with every Magnesium

ARTicle: Hold Them Accountable

Erasure Poetry with Sound Element: Reconstruct Woman

Book Review: Forging through the Flame: A Review of Bola Opaleke’s “Skeleton of a Ruined Song”

Poetry: Robot Love Song: An Opera. An Accident.

Cassandra Opens the Jar of Peanut Butter and Drops in the Only Clean Spoon

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Here’s a newish poem which you can listen to me read here!

Cassandra Opens the Jar of Peanut Butter and Drops in the Only Clean Spoon

Shaking today. I stood up
too long. There are so many objects
in the way when I move. I can
barely move. Even writing is upturning
the centripetal. Hands
shouldn’t. I worry
this will never go away
when it returns. Everything
undoes itself. Trembles. Roars.

But, if I died right now, I could
die near some soup
looking out at trees
with my cat and that seems like the best
way to go.

I could die near some soup. The canned kind.
Minestrone. Low
sodium. Glaring
out the small window. at the giant
light that looks
like a head. Or a moon in orbit. The taller
taller.
taller leaves. climb
ing the tree. the kind tree
that reaches down. to my wind
ow. the cat. staring out
at the squirrel. and chittering.
ch ch ch ch ch ch. this
seems like the best way.

If I died right now, I could
die here in this quiet
kitchen. No video
games. No one to badger me
with their determination
for my life or their track
for how I should have seen
signs, symbols
the setting, or steps
for what
they think
are earned amends.

The moon.
The moon out staring
glare at night. a pot of tea.
the carrots i route from the soup.
the cat, fluttering mildly
near his window top of the
tree this is the way I go

Enable my Writerly Lifestyle with a Coffee

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It’s a bit like a date with an almost-married woman, but instead of staring at me awkwardly across a table while I mumble about bands from the nineties, poetic construction, old dead languages, and Sappho fragments, I can write these things down, and you never have to personally deal with my violent moods. I would be endlessly appreciative of your support. Taking the donut.

Buy me a coffee, here.

Awards, Nominations (World Titles)

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Black Bough Poetry Reader’s Choice Award 2019, Black Bough Issue 3: Yolk, In a Sentimental Mood

Best of the Net Nominated Piece: Corvid Queen, Halcyon

Best of the Net & Rhysling Award Nominated Piece: Riddled with Arrows, Relic

Diablo Valley College Literary Contest; First Place; Fiction: DVC Inquirer Treat

Diablo Valley College Literary Contest; Second Place; Poetry: This piece was published in Susurrus Magazine (through SCC) in 2015. 

When We Lost (on Soundcloud)

Diablo Valley College Literary Contest; Honorable Mention; Poetry:

Why are you Dashing my Dreams on the Cruel Rocks of Reality (On Soundcloud)

branches. roots.

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the wind just lifted the branches outside my sliver of window. my heart is broken. the most brilliant beautiful woman i have ever known just died. 

branches. roots.

She-of-constant
bloom-filled kitchen
enfolds, says

you’re lucky

when I tell her I am
studying what she is

living. Bulbs

crinkle at the ends. She
flips from bluebright

surprise. Feathers near
translucent in her delicate
lap rest, inactive.

Her chin yields a fine
crop of protective hairs

I want to reach out

to trace along this
furry slope I have

memorized since
opening my first

book. Reaching pulp.
Scrabble board. Soft
boiled egg. Two

porcelain pigs
on this kitchen
shelf above her boughs.

These wounds used to
thrive, discover, fingerpaint.

I crumble to stars as she pats
my knee. Stops.
Stares at the wall

behind me. Art
has flown; her instructive
smile is replaced by

a lack. Her spark

no longer aflame; the chill
has come and she has fallen
from her branch.