The gun echoes through the doorways, retrovoom and downtrodden
hooves shed the dirt, hunger snorting the tendency and ready
halting, for a split second.

Capes coating their eyes, coats from the closet, a hidden closet
it goes places imperceptible, like the horses, ride ride ride.
Let’s continue.

Forever the hooves hawling the dirt — running — away or to you? Don’t open the gate,
secure all guarding edges; It’s the latter which is expired before the opening to catch
a runaway.

Pop pop pop like a can of coke the exploding “crisis” cannot scare the connector to
the hooves. The dirt, it chokes on construction-paper capes. Rainbows swirling, oh, the capes: like the fizz tickles up your nose, always keep it distant.

Round 2, oops, lap 2. The whistle cracks. According to my neighbor, I’’m new
at this. Clomp clomp clomping hooves, flowing flowing flowing capes, covered
eyes. Poor pasteurized beasts, it’s the race for your infinite win.

Survive, take the turn, dig deeper, stomping out the brokenness.

Their quinceanera sill is perched where the ribbons dangle, part of the brailing complete with communipaw hair. Do you see it? God must have placed it there.

God, hooves accompaniment of nothing, except, nature. An organic speed
at ordinary velocity permeates a race ahead.

Stay in place.
Launched for play.

Round round round they go trollopping the weedless trails, crazed by non-meaning production
value. Money money money reigns. Trop trop trop through their laughter and focus on the doorways to Kmart.

Redemption—do you know about the killings? Is it twice a day around the        weedless trails, round they galloptrop their hooves. Expendable, dying.

A Cobb Salad is delivered to Janet Green.
A bottle of champaign overflows; the flowpop, gallop and overabundant.

The end is near, Sugar Bowl has taken the lead; yes, yes.

Now the corpse needs a hearing aide. The cricket cries, Milady. Looking beautiful
but biassed, a remote Mr. Droppings. A tyranny of a buttkisser and continues to
litter the weedless trails, wandering out to the uncleared landscape. Hysterical recognition.
Kitty Jackson pulled out askew suitors. Gaudy sill, gaudy brailing. The, “Super Box,” Miss
Kitty Jackson wharls past, splitting monsters, grinding dirt, spraying litter.
Suddenly blazing.

A Poem



Ok, my little something life

exists in a hyperbaric chamber

‘Over The Rainbow’ beckons your pure

love, the crazy and the mortifying. Truly it

is gratingly mindedness, unlike passion,

I fill my boat with ice; I cut out the inanimate obsession

but I light a cigarette and wait

for the Quaaludes.

Betty Crocker destroyed Mary’s truth

when traveling to Luxembourgian.


A magnificent cocoon glittering one evening,

connected, hung from the sky, desperate


OK, an hour or more deprived of maturity, a

rag doll is transported and this is

my little something life.

Magic hair is wrapping everything

to sleep

listening to the martyred feel happiness.

A diamond under the water

makes life better, embodies suicide.

My little something life hanged

and blackened in the wind. My

armor continued to erode and unriddle

my existence.

Somewhere time progresses and tracing

the night by travelers.


Mixed optimism I grow faint, prone to

an empty beachfront wishing well.

A Poem


There are no sidewalks
on the street that I live
Narrowly it twists through
the similitudes of the past;
and those of the future
Treetops sag, creating canopies
the sun sneaks through the canopy
and sprays lights upon the creatures

There are no sidewalks
and the streets are broken,
red heart, come back from your slumber
Moss grows in the cracks and
my dog pees on the moss
The moss is green and brown
brown from the drought
brown to oppose the green
brown from my dog’s pee
Where do the dogs poop?

There are no sidewalks
and the modern houses ride
along the edge of the street
with their floor to ceiling windows
for you to see in, revealing their secrets
Accompany me while I sit here

There are no sidewalks
pedestrians and animals roam
amongst the leaded beast
Out of the way, I find my forest
But where do the students walk
on their way home from school?
I spy for their safety.

There are no sidewalks
and the old houses hide
away in the treetops
Long, twisting, skinny stairs
leading up to the cottages
with splitting paint, rotting decks
and insect ridden porches with
screen doors that screech
It gets to be kind of lonely
maybe not,
maybe just a new kind of emptiness

There are no sidewalks
on this street I live
But it is majestic, a wonderland
full of old and new
A cool ocean breeze whispering
secrets, and sun rays to listen
I’m not convinced there’s anything
in what I’m saying.
But I am convinced that
my street is special, it
gives breathe to the living
and holds death’s hand


After You Left

You clutched your shining lunch pail, draped your coat over one arm and bent at her still body. Not a flinch as your lips met her creamy skin.  One last look over your shoulder and the door closed. She slept. Her eyes moved slightly right to left, riding the waves of a dream. Her soft skin wrinkled to open her bright baby blues, lashes so long, a touch of darkness underlined them.

I was there from the beginning: your midnight move-in, touch-n-go stay, leaving her for months at a time. Where do you go? I don’t wonder, but a woman left to suffer loneliness…and when you leave her in a glass house, someone will see. They will see her undress, slowly, waiting for anyone to watch, to spy, and perhaps make a move.

I knew who she was, did you? Did you know she liked to be watched; did you know she dressed for me, and undressed?

Her skin shimmers from the glittered, peach scented lotion as she bends over to show just a bit of pink, just a peak of what one could indulge in. I took pleasure in watching her. I wanted her. You never knew how she wanted to be touched—she likes it rough. Your soft kisses bored her and when you made love to her she rolled her eyes. Her guests, when you’re gone, they’d tie her down to that huge, walnut four poster bed you purchased; they slap her and fuck her from behind. She records her love affairs: go to the closet and look in the shoe box marked “Old Running Shoes.”

I love her most when she smiles—her almond-shaped eyes curve and bend, pulling you in, and all I want to do is kiss her. Must be how she got you.

She walks and the whole room follows, her hair flows even without wind and she purposely moves each limb as if being recorded—she knew she was being watched. Her body language invited me. Covering her long legs with those black stockings and clipping the garter, one thigh and then the other, slowly. She reaches for her pill case, and crushes the pills into a perfect line, sometimes two. She pulls the drugs deep into her navel cavity and draws her head back. She hides them in her underwear drawer if you’re curious.

Two years I watched her; two years she dressed for me. I came, again and again.

The thoughts of her leaving are no longer bearable. I won’t let you take her from me.

Her slip was silky, silver and sheer. I ran my hands down her back and she moved in closer: I knew she was mine. Too easy and warm to the touch, so normal. She opened those dreamy eyes of hers and held my gaze. When she froze it was the perfect moment—I pulled my right hand over her mouth, and pushed into her throat with the other. I felt her esophagus crushing, her breath became lighter, and those baby blues popped and reddened from the pressure. I had a sense of power, holding her, knowing I was going to be the last one to enter her, to touch her. I was the last one she would touch, scratch her nails down my back through the denim pullover. Her hands gripped my arm, pleading. This time there is no game: there is a finish line, an end. She struggled at first, hard, thrusting her hips, trying to buck me off. I had her between my legs, pinned down, each knee crouched over her shoulders.

I saw her fear, her willingness before she went limp. Her soft blonde hair fell between my fingers as I massaged her scalp. The blade ran over her skin, splitting it open. Never mind the blood, it’s not from her head. It’s her heart that bled out—how ironic.

You can find that in the freezer.

The rest of her, turned inside out—like she did to me—is all there for you to examine, to see for yourself the whore she was: hidden behind the tulips, the flat shoes, and capri pants.

Will I miss her naked body in the morning sun, pushed out to the open air of your patio? Perhaps.

She took pleasure in many hands, but even more pleasure when she washed them off and greeted you, you unsuspecting and so trusting. Really, I did you a favor.

Look up.

I’m your bad neighbor.

Short Fiction

The Birds

A blue-ish hue enveloped the bright flames as they shot out in flashes—windows shattered, smell of burnt gas and dirt lingered below the rubble. Clouds of smoke rolled forward into the sky, shading the blue, shading the sun—drawing a dark circle above our heads, our houses, our homes. Mothers held their children back and Fathers stayed at work unknowing of the events set forth upon their families. Hours of flashing lights ran through the night. Walkie talkies beeping and sputtering people’s muffled voices in scattered parts as though they were speaking in code. The yellow tape looped and circled around schorched tree lines separating the other homes.

The house next door, on the right side, was empty—a renter. But the landlady lived a few houses away and stood in front of it shaking her head. She kept mumbling to herself, “It could have been my house, it could have been mine.” Her silver hair was wrapped in curlers and covered with a red silk scarf. Her robe was clingy and long it gathered in the back, yet still hung on her as if it was one size too big. She held a half empty cocktail in one hand and an electronic cigarette in the other. Her lips wrinkled together as she inhaled and rings would flow from her mouth. When the police questioned her, she sturdied herself against their car and answered every question with ease. Her shiny lips smacked when she talked, and she laughed hoarsely when they asked her if she knew the woman next door. “No-one knew her, little darling was a recluse.” She pocketed her thin and circular porcelain vanity, “It was a renter like mine… I wonder if Nick is aware…?”

The air grew thin and some of the passer by’s decided to keep moving. But those who were in immediate direction of Ms. Shaw’s House lingered for the whole show.

“She has a cat,” old man Frank said. He could be heard above the crowd, he directed his voice in the direction of the rescue team. They stood around waiting.

“Had a cat,” I thought.

The men looked Frank’s way, but didn’t say anything. One guy nodded at him, and the rest of them turned back and waited. They were waiting for the call to come collect the body.

I stood back, behind the crowd. I held my hands inside my pockets. I like my pockets. All my pants have pockets. I don’t like feet, I don’t like other people to wear shoes which expose their feet. I stand back here and I don’t see the feet. Ms. Shaw never wore shoes. She walked her cat around the yard with no shoes. I could see her from my window. Ms. Shaw would sit on her porch and rub her feet and ankles. I watched her pull her fingers in-between her toes. It made me vomit.

I rearranged my chair and TV to face away from the window. The window from which life passes, from which I can hear and see the birds feeding. I love the birds, they sound like sweet music that can never be recorded, not made from any machine. I have seventeen bird feeders, one can never have too many feeders. It’s my hobby, the bird feeders. They take time, care and detail—As soon as I am done with the soup I clean the can and begin to make holes. I make sure each one has four stoops to perch on. I glue popsicle sticks, chop sticks, old spoons, anything with a handle to the inside of the circles, and fill it with food.  One of them looks like an actual house, made from shoe boxes. The roof opens and the food fills into a small pouch with an opening. Three maybe four birds could fit inside. I have seen them come and go in pairs, finches I think. I placed the bird house in the center of my yard, and now it looks like the birds have a soft green lawn to jump and frolic around.

When Ms. Shaw moved in, so did Mr. Bubbles, her cat.

The finches started disappearing. First the feet, then the birds.

The white of my walls started to turn gray, and the TV sounded hollow. I wanted my birds back, I didn’t want to see Ms. Shaw’s feet mashing into the ground. I wanted Mr. Bubbles gone. I felt the match book inside my pocket. I thought about the trip to the store. How long it took to drive there, and how long it took to fill the gas cans. I wore blue surgical gloves.

The men were called inside, and I knew what they would bring out. I walked away. Back inside my fishbowl home I thought to myself how nice it was. I was looking out my window, and the birds were eating. I looked at the burnt house across the street and thought, “I’m your bad neighbor.”