Concept Art for my Sci-Fi Graphic Novel (SALVAGERS). The crew of the Harrier IV, a salvage crew cleaning up space after the Federation Shanion War.

Captain William Roenick

 Ty'r

Teagan Ry'es

Brigby

Kelsey LaCrosse

Gabriel

The Longfellow Bridge Diaries: Part 2

He canvases himself with small treasures excavated over time. They sway from his hips: the torn knapsack, the corners of the pushcart with which he struggles, its wobbly wheel jerking to and fro on the cracked walkway of the Longfellow.

He hoards them underneath the asphalt where urban artwork is for your eyes only and the weight of a voice can echo for days. He places them carefully at home in corners of darkness, under the bridge.

 

The Longfellow Bridge Diaries: Part 1

Her sundress hovered around her legs, dancing in a light breeze with the discarded newspaper's obituary and coupon sections. Her strong, defined, calves flashed in snapshots under the swell of the dresses waving motion, showing glimpses of purpose in her stride.

She met him right there in the middle of bridge. It was high above the water where she watched two seagulls share the tips of the bridges piles, where she wasn’t sure if she was in Boston or Cambridge, where she kissed him on the cheek.

Her eyes met the black water of the Charles, as he spoke, her hands the rough railing that separated the real world from an imaginary one. The blue floral patterns rose up her shoulder, along with a shiver, as he held her arm and made broken record promises for the second, third, fourth time.

That moment, an onlooker would see her softening and dare to dream whether she was coming or if she going?

Christ’s Fingertips

The couch, where I sit

sucks me in

a deep breath

holding my stillness

with soft teeth

bound in ropes of a suit and tie

and a make believe phobia

there is no creaking

of a settling house

just a muted hum on the television

no blinking beams of light

through closed and broken blinds

I fear I will forget

to breathe

as you have

every detail in the ceiling

lashes out for attention

I see them all

I pay attention

to none

they could be barefoot bastard children

for somebody else to clothe

or the famished homeless

faceless

for somebody else to feed

all but the spider are there for me

one who knows nothing of reason

bad days with an open wound

refusing to close

meaningless, but vigilant

on my ceiling

I study for a purpose in his random path

and I wonder if I knew him

in another world

as a person

a human being

less than an insect

in this moment

I forget you

our memories transparent

like windows

I look through to see other things

there is no noise in the background

of the room or in my mind

but then

I feel the card

in my pocket

and Christ’s fingertips place

each letter of your name

in my head

and I hear things

again.

The Cracked Sidewalk of Kentucky

One summer night, as I walked alone

down the cracked sidewalk of Kentucky

underneath a canopy of maples

where the moonlight fell

through branches

and lit my path with uneven lines

I wondered

where does the residue of lust and desire go

when everything you want to hear

has been said

(This was the very first poem I ever wrote. I workshopped it in my Poetry class at The Unversity of Pittsburgh... I haven't touched it since. It's time to sharpen my pencil.)

Objects for the Sun God

and she ran away

with a violence

stabbing at her knees and feet

dissolving into the wetness  

of winter air

her face, now

only a 3x4 snapshot

lost in a sea

of other imprisoned moments

scattered

on a living room floor

I can move the thin

flat pile; searching

but all that is left is

a memory of soft blue eyes

a medicine that won't heal.

this one was abandoned

a splinter

left under the skin

pushed out by protective flesh

over time…

over pain and infection

it peels apart

and shows off the insides

a place where secrets

are stored; protected

away from idol hands

in the back pocket

of frayed blue jeans

and a forgetful mind

in here,

past drawn curtains,

and stain-glass windows,

she can see me

stranded

on my island of the past

holding each picture
up to the light
like an offering
objects for the Sun God

“not this one”

“nor this one”

it's the one

with her arm

around my neck

our two wild smiles

and the statue

of Nike

in the background

headless and
wings spread out

“Where?”

gone

reversed back to blackness

and I remain the madman

hoarder

of images; of a face

ten years younger

than it was

yesterday.

1987

In 1987, I wanted to play in the creek,

catching frogs and wishing the darkness would wait another hour.

I wanted to keep a jar of lightning bugs by my bedside,

and name each one after cartoon characters.

In 1987, I wanted Tammy to be my friend,

I wanted to be important to somebody;

find a way to burst the soundless bubble that caged me

away from parents too young to see their recklessness.

In 1987, an Irish band sang With or Without you

and I wanted to know what love felt like.

I dreamed of beautiful girlfriends I would never make my wife,

because in 1987, I was too afraid to be kissed.

In 1987, I wanted to go to county fairs

instead of hospital waiting rooms.

I wanted to watch, for as long as I could,

until my innocence, like balloons, disappeared from view.

I wanted to believe in a Heaven

where I would never say goodbye to anyone,

never again watch ailing flesh
turn cold and gray.

In 1987, I wanted her to beat cancer.

I wanted to know my grandmother

better than an 11 year old could.

In 1987, I wanted it to be 1986.

(In Loving Memory of Jean "Nanny" Salley)