Flagrant Self Promotion

I released my self-published book of love letters, Dragonfly. It sure has been a liberating experience getting that project out the door. And I can now move to the next. 

I’m real pleased with how Dragonfly turned out. I married the letters to a short story. Here’s a free pdf download if anyone is interested.

Many thanks to Mark Dixon, who produced the cover and designed the interior.

Last year I read three self-published books. Alexandra Grabbe’s French Graffiti is the story of Alexandra's moving to France in 1969. I have only spent a few weeks in Paris (I'm not complaining), but I found the book was quite accurate, insightful, and especially fun. I recommend it.

I also recommend Becky Tsaros Dickson’s I Could Tell You Stories. It's beautifully written, chronicling Becky's life and internal journey over the last year. 

Likewise check out Arnal Kennedy's book of poems, You Woke Me in the Dark, somehow both haunting and delightful.

Congratulations to my friend Magda Makonnen, who is putting together her first chapbook. I’ve been anxiously waiting for years. Here’s some of her work. 

If anyone has a self published book, please let me know. That's mostly what I'm reading these days.

Lastly, I want to say how proud and also humbled I am to be friends with such amazing writers like the ones who consistently visit and leave comments here. I'm grateful for, as well as the beneficiary of, such nourishing creative connections. 

Let Me Out

I have been descending into my subterranean temple for seven years now. I did not know this temple even existed until I was shown the secret trap door I had been walking over my entire life.

You better believe I cried like a baby. I tried to sprint out of my apartment naked and screaming for help in the middle of the night, but that which showed me the trap door talked me out of it.

Somehow.

I spent two years simply peering underground, amazed.

Terrified.

I descended slowly and quickly. I didn't want to, and wanted so badly to get on with it. I began opening doors.

I found the animal abuser. I met the racist. I had lunch with the misogynist, and dinner with the rapist. I met the anti-Semite. I spent the day with the liar.

I opened a door and met the self mutilator. I chatted up the drug addict. I found the room with a hundred men jacking off, and another with a 12-year-old girl huddled in the corner. I met the murderer. I had coffee with the terrorist.

I found the taker disguised as the giver, the psychological abuser, the physical abuser. 

In the broom closet I found the broken boy.

And then one door remained, the thickest door of all, on the deepest level of my temple.

Every door was preparation for this last one. I have known it, but this knowledge cannot help me, for I have stood outside this last door for so long, shivering, pissing in my pants, wanting so very desperately to wake up.

And yet I know I will truly wake up only when I open this last door and meet the occupant.

And release him.

I would rather visit any combination of criminals, victims and deviants in this place than listen to him breathing on the other side in perfect synchronicity with me.

It is ironic that the drug addict has the run of the temple, but the occupant of this last room cannot leave unless I open the door from the outside.

Irony will not save me. Neither will this pool of piss on the floor or the shit balls falling down my pant leg, for I cannot stand in this position much longer. The flies are beginning to eat me alive.

It is time to let him out and clean up this mess I've made.

It is time to release the King.