I am currently working on creating digital versions of several of my zines which will be downloadable for free in the near future.
I am the moth. You are the moon.
You are the moon. I am the red shift.
You are the moth. I am a fire.
I am a ship. You are the destination.
You are a destination. I am the crossroads.
You are the ship. I am a change in the wind.
I am a path. You are the fog.
You are the fog. I am a lighthouse.
You are the path. I am a dead end.
I am a dead end.
This is a poem about a dog’s new home. It is also a love story.
Everything is different. I can’t sleep. I pace in circles. I don’t want to eat.
Raccoons go through the garbage at night here. I don’t like it. When I go outside it smells like other people.
I will bite anyone who comes near you. I will bite them. I can’t help it. It’s what I am.
I can hear the high pitched whine of electricity. It’s too hot out so I lie under the air conditioner. It sings me to sleep when you aren’t here.
An excerpt from Instructional Series: How to take a boy’s virginity.
- Find the perfect boy. He should be quiet with sensitive eyes. He does not need to be handsome but he should feel handsome. He should be afraid to look at you.
- Find the perfect knife. It should be sharp and fit comfortably in your hand. It should remind you of truth.
- Lose the fear of cutting yourself. Your thumb will be fine. You will be fine. There will be no accidents.
A Sample from Elizabeth
I dress simply. I wear my vest underneath a sweater to hide its bulk. My father’s knife rests at my hip and I go to the safe house to retrieve his pistol. I keep it in it’s own case along with the silencer. My father taught me how to attach it when I turned thirteen. His hands were calloused and thin but moved quickly, assembling and dissembling the weapon with years of practice. I thought he was a magician. I was not entirely wrong. He could make a man disappear.
My mother was the true illusionist though, the smiling blonde in the sequined vest, distracting the eye from the ongoing trick. The man in black waves his wand and pulls the trigger, then the doves clear while the body falls, and the audience gasps as he saws through bone and tucks the carnage away in to polished boxes, but my mother built another box, a glass box around the house. She painted it with the likeness of a normal family who did normal things. When she died there was no one to maintain it.