Hail the energy of creation. Below are projects that are lighting my fire now,
while I'm editing my first novel.

Today is my Only Day, Poems

Hawk on a Fencepost

I speed
past fallow fields
by this patient raptor
I'm heavy
in the driver’s seat
clinging to the wheel
the land divided
into checkerboards
the burn piles
arranged like numbers
on dice
I want to roll
take my foot on or off
the accelerator
I never know which
I have the urge always
to do both
I wonder why
plain and ordinary
life is so hard to live
if only something
could dull the edges
of my desire
I crave a cigarette
the first in years
I’m not the only one
my mother’s bottle
my father’s
cloud of smoke
my grandparents
with stiff drinks
stiff now in their graves
these long windy roads
a kind of therapy
but I’m not some teenage boy
in a red truck
on a joy ride
the difference is
I know better
to stay on my side
of the dotted line
but still I’m driving
this treeless landscape
rolling up and down
these carved-out roads too fast
trying not to flinch.


This is from a collection of poems from my days raising small children on an organic farm.

The Sabotage Journal Project, Multi-Media


The sun is rising pink and orange over the snow covered ridge. Heavy white snow on the branches, backlit with color. Not a footprint left in the snow. Yesterday after a snow flurry, a sun break, and tens of robins descended upon our farm. The fields were filled with them searching the saturated ground for bugs flooded to the surface. Easy prey. My husband tries to take a photo of our woodpecker, so beautiful on our aged oak, but the robins keep getting in the way. The blue heron balances in the white field. Two pairs of ducks swim on the pond. I tell my son the pretty ones are the boys.

To like poetry is to like birds, I think. To know the subtle differences between them, to realize that they inhabit the trees, the eaves of your house, the stretched wire that you no longer see. They can visit your world or just as easily fly out of your reach.

My son is whining in the background, crying really, hysterical really. My husband finally picks him up off the floor. He's probably covered in cat and dog hair pasted to his face with snot. My husband picks him up, opens the door, the outside air does not calm him. 

I'm having trouble breathing again.


A collection of seven years worth of material,this meta-examination of circular thinking, includes audio, visuals to be harmonized as an installation. 




novel #2


His lover complains. He doesn’t caress her inner thigh the way the men do in her novellas, doesn’t whisper between her legs, his breath tickling her. This is what she expected from him.

On stage his passion is electric. The violin in his arms quivers as he dominates it. The wood so fragile, she worries he may snap its neck with his intensity. The audience holds their collective breath in suspense as his horsehair bow slashes across the instrument.  The violin’s sharp cries reverberate in the balconies and in the hearts of the patrons in their padded seats.

Of course, he is nothing like his persona on stage.

Expectations are the source of disappointment, she knows this. She lives this. But still. It is his stage presence she wants in her bed, not the balding man next to her with hairs like antennas growing out of his moles.

So she is jealous. She imagines being his violin. His prize possession.

He is nothing without her, just a man gesticulating on stage, whipping his arm, bobbing and nodding and squinting without a sound. He is nothing without her in his arms.


Set in Cremona, Italy and New York, i have been researching and writing The Beginnings of this Musical novel.