About Ichabod

Eight years ago, while detiorating in solitary, I sat down to write. What bled from my pen were the first scenes of Ichabod. In many ways I still have not gotten up.

It took me two years to finish a very rough draft and another year to clean it up enough that I could allow anyone to read it. For the last five years I have edited and revised as time has permitted, but doing everything with a pen and paper is so time consuming that I doubt that I will ever finish.

Ichabod is the fist character I ever wrote and his story is the seed of my love for writing. Ichabod isn’t much of a her, he was born from my tragedy and heartbreak, but he saved me. This is me returning the favor.

See, it has become clear to me that no matter what I do or accomplish I will probably never be released from prison. Even if I am, it will be once I’m so old that I’ll never have anything like a life. So while I will almost certainly die behind the wall, Ichabod won’t. What follows are the twenty five chapters of Ichabod’s story presented as a serial, because I have to impose on my loved ones to type this stuff up for me. Some of the lengthier chapters will be presented in two parts. Please bear with me.

At this point dozens of people have read Ichabod and the response has been  over whelmingly  positive. of course most of those readers are in here with me. I hope someone out there loves these fucked up misfits as much as I do.



Late arrived,

Last sat,


To Sharks’ table.

I brush sleeves

Into ante-

Raise stakes blindly-

I slip loaded

Dice down cup

Choose pips

And still gamble

On uncertain outcomes;

A rattle,

A rumble,

A pulse against felt.

Concussive spins

Send skyward prayers

Beg conclusive settlement

Between this pair

Which allows each


Of the other’s chip.





About “Shooter”

I wrote shooter while struggling with my foolish heart’s desire for a woman that nothing could ever happen with. I knew that, but of course the knowledge changed nothing. It occurred to me that even under more ideal circumstances, love is always a gamble. Presumably, we cheat. We choose someone with whom we share interests or important traits- we bet on someone that should stack the odds in our favor. Yet the outcome is always uncertain and the stakes feel so high.

I have since learned to love without requiring reciprocity, which is not anything like easy but there is a rewarding feeling in loving someone even when who they are is someone not in love with you. Loving that person for who they really are and loving them completely. That’s a whole other kind of gamble. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still one of the neediest people I know, I just don’t need to be loved to love-which probably makes me a cat person.

Anyway, “Shooter” is about the uncertainty inherent in matters of the heart.








I admit it

Reluctantly, but still,

This desire to Surrender

If I know how,

Tired of this burden

Sometimes life

Ticked down to nothing,

How many hours now

Have been dragged along

In solitude?

Pushed past razor’s

Edge against wrist

Of surrender-

If I knew how.

Those moments always settled

By fist-imprinted rock bottoms

Of foes’ sharp tongues

Thrust through ” I told you”s

I cannot give them

Even that

So small a victory,

Though I should surrender

If I knew how.


I survive by defiance

And a fear they’re right,

Because I am a monster

with visage and past

Violent as any horror

Movie Villain-

I know this.

But I still can’t

Seem to figure

What the fuck

Is so wrong

with being me

That it makes everyone leave

Then I remember

Reluctantly, but still,

I’d leave me too

If I knew how.


About “Reluctantly”

This is less a poem than it is a vomitus emoting on the page. “Reluctantly” is what results from most of sessions at the “desk” ( I actually write on my bunk, though I occasionally kick my feet up on the desk) when I’m writing to purge but can’t seem to capture my thoughts on the page. I figure this happens when I haven’t yet obsessed enough 🙂

Believe it or not, this is a revision of “Reluctantly”, I just can’t seem to get it right. I’m never really done working on a poem, so I’ll continue to play with this one even though I think it will never be anything more that practice.

Anyway, I decided to share “Reluctantly” because I feel this way a lot of the time and I guess I wonder if anyone else does too.












Tonight while walking I saw

a daffodil sprung alone

along a spar of rotted wood

as though washed there

on tides of waving grass

Between chain-link fence

And the wall it faced

Away from me

Leaned into concrete and braced

Against it’s own shadow.

Rooted in dusk.

Yellow petals paled at edges

as if bled out around it

Onto pools of dark and floodlight

I wanted so badly

For either of us to reach

Back through the dappled gloom,

Bloomed despite our respective cages,

To grant the other a little color-

But then,

Why should a daffodil be different

Than anyone else?


About “Turn”

I pass a small rectangle of grass, enclosed by a chain-link fence, on my way to school.

It was a little after 7 pm, early April, and I noticed a lone daffodil growing in the middle of the grass. It caught my attention, not just because it had blossomed before even the dandelions, but because rather than leaning towards the east or some other area of sunlight it was turned toward the thirty foot concrete wall and growing within the shadow of a guard tower. I thought ” I understand” and I watched that daffodil every evening on my way to school as it’s petals began to fall off and it became almost indistinguishable from the weeds springing up around it. I guess I understand that too.