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Fitting Ghost

I knew you were true so I boiled inside just looking at you.
Content believing anything outside an adulterer was a solid significant other.


Though, while you were here, I was so so sad, finding myself trailing the house like a sleepwalking phantom. Too exhausted to remember not to be found where I ought not. You married a ghost–a ghost that is so fitting for your temperament.
An eclipse of my whole self.
The listlessness an appropriate darker side.
Where you vowed to stay forever and guard it.
A flag on a shifting side of my moon, determined to be in shadow. While the war on earth began.
The trumpet marking the start of carnage was all of humanity showering my sunlight with arrows. A few billion lanses.

—-

I tilted my head forward a few inches to feel heat cloak my face and steam roll down to my collarbones. I inhaled the fiery gas and it burned through my nose hairs and throat. Like something more than water going through me. Looking into the shiny steel pot I saw flesh double over and whine. The meat would be nearly finished soon so a half sprig of thyme would need to be thrown in. Perfect timing!

“Hon, will you hand me the thyme from the cabinet?”


“What would you have done had I not come into the kitchen?

“Please. This morning is sweet. Just pass the thyme. Please…”
She passed it, but not without something to say about it.

“I’m wondering about that shelf you mentioned a few nights ago. The floating bookshelf?” She pauses waiting for me to respond to something that isn’t actually a question. “The one with the marbled plexiglass?”

I loathe that, regardless of being told a million times over, she insists on believing that if she simply inflicts her tones a certain way, she can goad people into answering for things like a guilty child. She intends to make me speak like a toddler on display because I have frustrated her by something as simple as dry herbs.

“Well, all I’m saying is you look like the proper lumberjack. It’d be nice to get some handiwork out of you is all. Not that I don’t enjoy you making organic food for the dog. It’s just…”

This little dance was the most tiring. I didn’t mind the mother-in-law-like nitpicking or the insinuation that me taking a while to build another bookshelf in the house that I built from scratch with our contractor made me less of a man. And of course I cook my dogs food from scratch. He’s a pure breed for goodness sake! But as is the nature of the storm that is my wife, a purposeful drip can be more uncomfortable than water boarding.

But I told her the same thing I told my sister and mom when they asked. “Hon, you are worth every drop of effort.” And it remained true as long as I kept saying it out loud. One day I wouldn’t have to say it at all. That’s my hope. Everyone married over twenty years says it just gets easier after that. We’re six years in and I’m wishing I could time-lapse the next fourteen years. “And you look hot as hell today!”

That seemed to please her and she waltzed out of the kitchen. If it weren’t for the way we level out in bed, I don’t know how long I could’ve kept this up.

“Honey, I’m here for you,” I call after affectionately.

“Well it’s like being here with a ghost!”

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Utopia Was Real

Utopia was real
At one time
It was not new
Was not unlikely 
Was deserved
At one time 
Till then, again
Endure this hell

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Should Not Even Be A Word

What is not gradient?
What flow of time isn’t eventual memory loss?

What remembrance wasn’t each day feeling the real thing less and less and then transferring sensation into delusional perception—for the sake of not fading?

What isn’t gradient?
It should not even be a word.

What catatonic love wasn’t daily forgetting why anything was worth the efforts?

Who is born as man?
Who is born, skin already taught?
Flesh nearly ready to burst?
Ready to give up into deadly

nothing but still


Floating into air like interpretive dance and all muscles pulsing?
Who is born man?

What song isn’t transition from now until the end?

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“A Deep & Gorgeous Thirst”

( This piece was recently published the Hawaii Pacific Review. That enough was reason to open it & I was more than pleasantly surprised❕💬 )

by Hosho McCreesh (from A Deep & Gorgeous Thirst) At the chalet and you’re guzzling down bombers of Farmer beer, and the occasional measure of …

A Deep & Gorgeous Thirst
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Let It Not Be

The chosen ones made idols.

Statues of gold and genies right below the present, True and Living God.

Stay far from gold.

Whatever you should decide to arrive in, let it not be gold.

Too oft does gold stimulate hungry pupils readied with greedy hearts waiting to make of you a statue and symbol of meaning in their eyes.

A symbol of something foreboding. Coated completely in matte armor.

Turning shiny in the sunlight

Then back to its lusterless base.

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Fall Is…

Fall is a lanky hipster.

A lanky hipster with a Brooks seat on his bike and a fedora on his head.

A fedora on his head and an infinity scarf draped over a perfectly creased American Apparel collared shirt.

An American Apparel collared shirt not currently found on Amazon.

An original. Cared for and with pride.

Fall is that same hipster, gliding down the street made up of only bike lanes

Grateful for the social distance.

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A Thoughtful Way to Get Writing While Utilizing Your Stationery for Marketing

from “DIY. Postcards as a way to promote your literary works” — https://kadr.vip/alex-markovich-marketing-tips

What a lovely idea that captures the ephemeral nature and resilience of literature. Keeping this written word airy, kinetic, and also tangible!

Will give it a go!

“…literary postcards where I place abstracts from my stories.

Where do I send these literary postcards? To cafes, libraries, museums, and to my blog readers on their request.”

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To Six To

Some have never counted down, only
counted up


Counting up:
what is done when teasing tolerance
and testing patience
From one and three and twenty-nine
they, desperate to be stopped
Proven wrong


Relieved are those who depend
on counting down.
Basking in surety and an end.
Promised and provided.
From twelve to six to one.

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Mr. F. Ocean

The first time I got high

Mr. Ocean released an album

Someone smashed my bed and ceiling together

Just so I would be cozier

And on Pua Lane

The humidity was just right

Hugging me the way my teachers always did

At the end

When the high was over, the jokes stopped being so hilarious.

My classmates had to get back to their work; no one wanted to bring an assignment home if it could be done at their desks.

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key click?

Key click and key click
And decline with surety this and the next also
“Could these pieces be any more hollow?”
“These aren’t writers. These are twenty-something-aged children”
So the poems and the flash fiction and the creative nonfiction are sophomoric
So I begin hating my job as an editor
This publication is small so
Perhaps this explains the mediocre writing
Perhaps this is the “At least I tried” publication
Although, each of these ‘writers’ have given a more honest try than I have lately.
At least they cared to write something.
Will I?

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So so

I feel so very sad today
Like lakeside in a post-drowning exacerbated exhale
Today I am unwoven, unraveled, revealed, bare, raw
Sticky stuck itchy square centimeters of thick grime-coated, sweat-beading skin
Is giving up
So very sad?
I am pillow side reeking of dry salivary residue
And yet not willing to peel
To pull away
At all
At the dawning of eve,
I am still

Very sad