Once, I lived in a world of negatives

where I knew how to walk through darkness

and exhale light.

I thought that was all there was to beauty–

that transformation; the gentle birth of white

when I first noticed the cool, summer air kiss my skin

and I looked up and saw the entire palate of blues nested in your eyes,

your strawberry cheeks in my hands and the softness

of your yellow words so light.

Carelessly, I was thrown into the world of colors

where I have a new appreciation for all that is white

as it represents all that is you.



Old Man in a White Suit

CAST: Old Man, ironically in his late forties.  Gray hair; ivory, 50s-style suit with matching hat; slight stubble; messy eyebrows.

SETTING: Stage is bare, completely black.  After house lights go down there is still no light onstage.

Scene 1



[strikes long match for cigarette already in his mouth.  Can’t quite get the match to light]

I didn’t know ’til today pigeons have these bright orange eyes–like those fuckin’ tictacs, y’know?

[Finally strikes match]

I should quit.

[Lights cigarette]

I mean I’ve fuckin’ grown up with pigeons.  My pa even adopted a couple–thought it’d be fun to train ’em.  Never could do it.  They’d all eventually manage to escape.  When I think of those pigeons though, all I can see is their slick, silvery… purple-orange feathers and the way they walk.  Never noticed their eyes before today.  Fucker almost ate out of my hand he was that close.  You don’t fuckin’ care, though.

My Summer in Japan: Haiku


Cicadas sing rippling songs

Did I lock my bike?


Kids come with questions

Dishes soak in soap water

When did I grow up?

http://culinarychronicles.files.wordpress.com/2009/11/top_ramen.jpgEating top ramen

Makes me remember rhubarb

Lining my garden.


Small white flecks of rock

Fly under me as I ride

Too many to count.

Dear America, you sparkling motherf***er.

Here’s a patriotic poem I wrote for the 4th of July (on American time). The accidental bloopers are pretty hilarious slash would make my mother lose faith in my future prospects, so I’ll make a blooper reel as soon as I can. Enjoy the poem!

The Metaphorical Seduction of Confectioners’ Sugar

As a household item, confectioners’ sugar (perhaps you know it as simply “powdered sugar”) is no big whoop.  There’s nothing special about it.

But as as writer I fear I’ve become a little obsessed with it.  Why?  Because writers are always looking for new things to say–new images, sounds, combinations, etc… You name it and we’re looking for it.  And I have only once in all of my reading come across confectioners’ sugar.  Now I can’t remember that short story’s name, but I vividly remember the ghost of a chef coming to the protagonist in his dreams, moaning “I can’t remember” with his hands covered in confectioners’ sugar.  That image stuck with me and catapulted me into a secret obsession.

In my novel, I managed to sneak it in around the middle:

metal pots and pans wildly clattered behind the food cart and a puff of white smoke jumped up beside him.  A small, blond kid with freckles leapt to his feet, his clothes layered with breadcrumb batter and confectioners’ sugar.  He coughed as he stumbled out of the cloud of powder and jumped at the sound of other boys spotting him.

And just today, I managed to use it in a spoken word piece called, “The Baker’s Son”:

Poems fall from trembling lips and his words push and pull and push and pull like jumping clouds of confectioners’ sugar until even the dinner plate moon presses against the skylight to listen.

The second example is why it’s become a curse.  The rhythm of that line is pretty good for the frantic section it lives in, but on closer scrutiny, it doesn’t quite make sense…  I can see the quick puffs of confectioner sugar, but I’m not sure they push and pull.  And I’m too attached to the repetition of “push and pull” to chuck it for less emotional (albeit more accurate) verbs and, for the baking theme’s sake, I don’t want to change out “confectioners’ sugar.”  I will admit that it used to be “…pull like cumulus shelves of confectioners’ sugar” and I finally dared to delete that delicious alliteration.

I’m a stubborn prisoner of my own simile.  Normally, I am quick to erase lines and start fresh without regret, but for now, I’m a captive, a dupe.

I have been fully seduced.  How about you?