The Jar


I like to call it my glass pocket. The jar that holds scraps of paper, twisted, bent and floating to the top. Crinkled memories saved. Sketches of celebrities doing novel things in far off places. A picture of David Duchovny eating McDonalds on the Coney Island ferris wheel twirls in place. Diana Ross singing Stop In The Name Of Love to Isis.

Put a lid on it, they say.

But I can’t close my pocket. Its memories might shatter.

The Clock

This is a time piece that was published in The Siren.

Time had the face of an autistic sentiment that knew no difference from measurement and reason. He spoke in between the silent tic toc of a question mark. What are you doing? How are you making the most of your life? From place to place he would stay the same. Stoic to a point and sturdy to a surface, he remained hung from a place of authority. When minutes became hours and days became weeks, his face grew no shorter from the pleasure that he reaped. When time finally ended, there was no alarm. His breaths were fatal in stagnation.

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