Pseudologia Fantastica / Fantastica Conficiens (Truth, Fiction, & Deceit)

I won’t lie—I am seven months behind in my National Geographic subscription. It’s not that I’m okay with letting things pile up. There’s just so much demand on my time. It’s a problem, but it only affects me. What am I to the big, wide world? Even still, I try to keep up. National Geographic... Continue Reading →

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Unsent Love Letter to Virginia Woolf (a poem)

[Scrawled on the steps of 46 Gordon Square, London, England, April 2014]   Dearest Vergie,   It may please you to know I took some time out of my busy itinerary today to visit you in Bloomsbury. I rang, but you must have missed the bell. that’s okay, most of us won’t even have well-wishers... Continue Reading →

Like They Said…

"I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound or stab us…we need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A BOOK MUST BE THE AXE... Continue Reading →

Truth, Fiction, and Nostalgia

I am unfashionably late to shamelessly self-promote some new prose that has come out earlier this month in Literary Orphans. As you will see in the table of contents, pieces are listed with approximate read times…so don’t be a dick and spend two fucking minutes reading something I humbly proffer two minutes of my writing... Continue Reading →

Heartbreak in the Rockies

Back in the bar where I first bumped into her there is no sign of life, it’s like an abandoned building overtaken by overexcited drunks who try to sing their own songs over the lone guitar man playing a bastard cover of Your Time Is Gonna Come. Well maybe his time, but not mine.- from... Continue Reading →

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