My futile and unavailing words cannot express the anguished, quixotic, melancholic, mad salience and utterly unquenchable need to hold you and love you as no one ever could or would or should. But here I am, alone. Thinking of nothing … Continue reading The Madness of You. A poem.
This oil, viscous and thick, holding me fast in the tar pit of my black heart and head, since the very start. Wish I could shed this black dog That follows me everywhere. Perhaps soon, anon, I’ll lose my empty … Continue reading This Oil. A poem.
This room is overcrowded, ingurgitated hell. But just you and me, if you subtract everyone else. This room is clamorous, cacophonous hell. But you could hear me (so very clearly), if you subtract everyone else. This room is overheated, agitated … Continue reading Subtract. A poem.
A few minor spoilers! Red Sparrow is a harrowing spy movie starring Jennifer Lawrence and Joel Edgerton and directed by Francis Lawrence. Why harrowing? Because it includes several excruciating scenes of graphic torture and explicit violence (there’s sex, too—surprisingly it’s … Continue reading Red Sparrow. A movie review.
They tramp down five flights in faulty glowglobe dimness, skirting sleeping derelicts and the occasional Verso dealer. They are given wide berth by the occupants; Granny Chun’s pumpgun speaks volumes without ever needing to bark. Eventually they reach a level … Continue reading Anvil. Part 6.
Driftwood, floating on percolating tides. Saltwater soaks fossil branches. Sand embraces nooks and crannies. Driftwood, meandering, awaiting a tactile, tacit end. Longing for a final, lasting beach head. The All or the Nothing is my first book of poetry, and … Continue reading Driftwood (Beached, part 3). A poem.
The Sale was an unplanned, episodic story I wrote for my blog over a six-month period. Following is a complete list of every episode, so you can read in order from the beginning. Enjoy! Steve 😊 Part 1 – The … Continue reading The Sale. Every Episode!
Tri-fin cutting foaming swathes in majestic, molten, crashing waves. Off-shore wind: the only stakes, paddling out to meet the break. To take his certain place in line, for the weaving surf to redefine. To forge a newborn legend free, the … Continue reading The Board (Beached, part 2).
The wild surf, like his impetuous heart, pounds and beats the sandy shore, like a pugilist with vanity to spare. Here the relentless, crashing waves make their mark in odd time signatures, in fluid and passionate syncopation, a symphony of … Continue reading The Wild Surf (Beached, part 1). A poem.
John Green has rapidly become one of my favourite authors. I’ve now read four* of his young adult (YA) novels, the latest being An Abundance of Katherines (AoK). AoK is about Colin Singleton, a young prodigy who finds himself at … Continue reading An Abundance of Katherines. A Book Review.
You are my focus. Without you I am a blur, a hazy remnant lurking on the periphery of this sun-scorched existence. You are the prism through which I shine. You are my multiplicity of light, an enchanted, technicolour spectrum, illuminating … Continue reading Focus. A poem.
The Anvil stares blankly at Granny Chun—not much different from most of her male body’s expressions. “I think you better fill me in. From the beginning.” Chun grins. “Of course. But we need to get out of here.” She points … Continue reading Anvil. Part 5.
No spoilers here! Okay, you’ve read the reviews already. More than likely you’ve already seen it. I’m talking director Ryan Coogler’s Black Panther, the latest Marvel Studios’ superhero film that ends up being one of the best movies Marvel has … Continue reading Black Panther. A Movie Review.
Your bold sweetness leaves the bitter taste of regret, a sensate lamentation, dissonant on my tongue. This saccharine tinge leaves me cold and wanting; a vine that dies from frost that sears the roots black and returns them back to … Continue reading Saccharine. A poem.
My son, God love him, turned twenty this year. It’s hard not to think of him as a teenager, though, as he still lacks that special something that signifies him as an adult. No, not body hair; he’s got more than enough of that–inherited from his grandfather, who’s known as the ‘silverback’ (yeah, you guessed it. After the gorilla). It’s common sense I’m talking about. That undefinable understanding about how to get by in life, how stuff works; that sort of thing. No, not how the internal combustion engine works, because even I don’t understand that. It’s about the basics: … Continue reading The Good Son.
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