This poem is a response to one my dad wrote by the same name. It is included below. White Hair I figure you were finally caught by the old man you tried to chase away. I think I saw him too at my dusk and your dawn, in the morning after too much wishing I could carry you along. Maybe Calvin Senior came and pulled you away you wrote how smart men do this each in their own way. I know you’d never leave without a fight, never gently into that good night. But now that you are out

Two moments in time, forever in mind October 2000, sitting on the edge of the hill, what a great view A sunset, ¢1 lollipops, our hearts filled with joy "Say goodbye!" grandma yells from down below, "Five more minutes!" I reply, taking in the last sunshine glow Deep inhale, the smell of wet dirt and handmade tortillas Hand in hand, we climb down together - one last hug so tight Tears fall, "I'll see you soon!" a promise so bright March 2013, a different edge, a different view

My mother told me it was contagious, her proclivity for loneliness. When I was a boy, I couldn’t quite describe that emptiness in the pit of my stomach, that perpetual knot in my throat, that inexorable desire to be a nuisance to those who were sick of my company, that self-hatred knowing that people were, in fact, sick of my company. I was eighteen when she told me, shortly after my aunt passed away. She went to New York for a work trip, and I was left alone, left to my own

"Bob Dylan," "Hud," "29," and "Victoria PT"

My many years on stony roads have led me to the crashing edge.

Lucia of Syracuse, patron saint of writers — known for fiercely guarding her virginity, but isn’t that another way of saying self-preservation and autonomy from men? Patron saint of the blind — the men who killed her tore out her eyes,  and she holds them in every painting  like a badge of honor, like she hasn’t yet been bested.  Look what they’ve tried to take from us, she seems to say, poised and unfazed, instructing me:  write them into a corner.

Let this wicked song hit where it’s true let it love you thru and thru.

i. Träumerei, "Kinderszenen" No. 7; Robert Schumann I was four when I fell in love for the first time. With tender fingers, I traced every one of your lines, black and white smudged slightly with my fingerprints. Naive, my hands caressed your surface like a lover delicately exploring the depths of her beloved’s heart. The world was at my fingertips; you were my world. Your mind lay open before me, a sheet of paper studded with dots and lines and symbols, the genius of all th

Their darling souls, He does not take For it is only their hearts He wishes to save And so at night While they lay asleep, He reaches inside And takes every piece Only then satisfied, He will be With their hearts His trophies Reattached and fixed On display  In a glass case Right near his bedside He smiles as he admires Each one Because he knows They can never deny him The love He so desperately craves Ever, again #poetry #horror

My dog's head hangs out the window, breeze on his face with a little support for his hind legs.

Jade thrusts the marinated fish into the wok before instinctively flinching. The oil jumps up from the wok immediately, just as she anticipated; one pop after another. The little girl struggles to keep her balance atop the splintered wooden stool, despite her toes being firmly planted. The cabin is not evident of any signs of life, with the dead silence only disrupted by the sizzling of vegetable oil. She adds a spoonful of salt and mixes it around with a chuan, routinely. Sh

Aves Condor is a Puerto-Rican college student from South Jersey, where he grew up. Deriving inspiration from his own life, emerging with a passion for creative writing and poetry/prose.

On a Summer Night in 2018  “Nicks, can I have another one?”  “I don’t know, little one,” Nickole “Nicks” James, the babysitter, replied. “It’s getting late and your parents won’t be too happy if you end up with another sweet tooth.”  The innocent blue eyes suddenly became sheepish. “You know about that?” “Let’s put it this way,” She returned to the living room and sat back on the couch, folding her arms across her chest languidly. “I know about a lot of things I’d prefe

I had expected a shockwave of oohs and aahs to move through the lecture hall at the sight of my childhood picture. Yet the students seem indifferent.

The 4 a.m. train rattles your windowsill and sends the little ceramic flower pot crashing to the floor. It’s alright, it was precariously balanced, and ugly, and nothing ever grew in it, not that you were growing anything in the first place.