My Face Becomes A Picasso Sketch, My

I've Written In Every Imaginable Location; A Repurposed Closet, The Kitchen Table, The Bleachers While My Kids Had Basketball Practice, The Front Seat Of The Car When They Were At Soccer. In Airports. On Trains. In The Break Room When I Was Supposed To Be Wolfing Down Dinner. In The Back Of Classrooms When I Was Supposed To Be Paying Attention.

To Keep Up Appearances, I Stomp My Room And Slam The Door.

Revision Means Throwing Out The Boring Crap And Making What’s Left Sound Natural.

In One Aspect, Yes, I Believe In Ghosts, But We Create Them. We Haunt Ourselves.

Melancholy Held Me Hostage, And The Bees Built A Hive Of Sadness In My Soul.