Monthly Archives: December 2018

Fiction Coming Soon: “Tiger” in The Reckoning

“As a one-star Inspector General for the UN’s military police, I was uniquely positioned to assign myself any case that I chose, particularly after many years of hard assignments. I had chosen the matter of the mysterious Doolittle, a sort of multi-national guerrilla artist whose work I had encountered in my time amid the water riots of Bangladesh. The machines were dangerous, like wild animals.”

Here in a week or two, my short story “Tiger” will be available in Michael J. DeLuca’s The Reckoning 3.

Watch for it here:

This publication is eligible for awards for the year 2018, as well, so read well and adjust your ballotry accordingly.


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Sonnet #276

If I am supposed to be a man, to earn

my place among the ancestor ghosts
who earned their place among the holy host
who earned their place when light was a burn
And every day was scratching and long knives
And still they found a way to love another
And still they found a way for peace to cover
All festering coals, I think I should live
a little leaner, then, and walk a little narrower
Where the barrows beckon and hard games
play hard ways until i fall down into the harrower
Let me be a man like they were, if I am to blame
myself for all my sins, allow me strength of scarecrows
To stand strong in the skyline, scare birds with no name

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Sonnet #275

Before they burn in autumn sunlight, they

will feast on candlestick trees, golden yellow

as the sun where the flowers feed their fellow

firebirds, to burn without a puff of smoke, they

eat a feast of sunlight, fly to heat, burn with no clouds

Cloudless Sulphur on the wind, the beating wings

Flicker brimstone, dead oak leaves falling

And these little golden flames fly proud

About the place; to decay is to burn a little

To feel the energy being peeled to gone

And in this gentle, slow fire’s spittle

New life follows seasons’ longest song

Where the leaves fall, brimstone butterflies flicker

And the ruins’ end comes quicker, quicker

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Sonnet #274

“We who own the wind,” they say, “We own

the sky and ground. We own the wind, how it

blows through the canyons, how it screams, sit

down in a field that we own, too, and know

these men who came before you and took claim

of the water in the sea and the minerals in soil

We planted flags on moons and invented water’s boil

We own the process of the boil, we own the same

things everywhere; nothing is new, nothing is not ours.”

That is what they say, what they always say to us

That come after them into the canyons and valleys and fjords

That we owe them just standing. At first, we believe because

We have heard this song so much, until we shout

loud enough into their wind, and decide that no one owns us

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