To the One Who Never Will

Our story is never-ending.

That to say, I will always love you. 

Aware of this dream state which is my tendency to romanticize the past.

Flash Poem to Self: “Be confident, not sad sap, sipping quietly in corner bar:” On Writing, the Bohemian Lifestyle, and Balancing Art/Mind.

I will be confident — not sad sap, sipping quietly in corner bar.

I will be, act, speak with intention.

I will be finished, will shop my novel. 

Prologue to a Memoir: A Rough Draft, a Novel, a Working Confesson.

A strange thing happens when you begin to contemplate the end. It’s as if setting such a definitive goal opens the world to endless possibilities: a phone is buzzing,

From the Rooftops of Granada — an excerpt from my manuscript for ‘The Outsider.’ A Confessional Memoir/Novel on Identity, Love, Travel and Revolution in the Arab Spring.

I mean, it’s not cheating if nothing happens. Oh, but emotions run deep. Which begs the question: What’s worse, an emotional or a physical affair?

The Outsider

The sky out my window is that fiery red which makes the heart swell with life and there it is again: that sensational expanding within my chest, rising to my throat, gripping and stinging my eyes. Oh, no. Not again. I bury face into the scarf. Traces of fig leaf and sandalwood bring her rushing

A Triangle Under a Spotlight Sun

“I could hear the blood rushing in my ears. Feel the sun beating over my brow, speckled and damp and her brow wet like honey. The blood rushing and wet like honey. The blood rushing. The beating heart in Kansas City. The honeyed skin, the beating hearts, the beating suns. Wet like honey. A triangle