While in college, I wrote the Original-Series Star Trek novel The Cry of the Onlies. It's published by Pocket Books.
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I turned my screenplay AU PAIR GIRL, which was optioned a number of times, into a YA novel. Itoh Press published it. Now the press has closed, it has bequeathed the whole book, including the cover design, which I like, to me. Here is the book trailer, made when the book came out:
Many of my short stories have appeared in speculative fiction magazines . . .
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As well as in more "literary" magazines and anthologies . . .
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A lot of my stuff is hard to classify and falls into some slipstream area . . .
Three books of my poems have been published by small presses. Wild Kingdom was published by Singular Speech Press. You Get One President: Poems of Love and Pain from the Clinton Era and Fin de Siecle Blues were published simultaneously by Linear Arts Books.
Three books of my poems have been published by small presses. Wild Kingdom was published by Singular Speech Press. You Get One President: Poems of Love and Pain from the Clinton Era and Fin de Siecle Blues were published simultaneously by Linear Arts Books.
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Poems of mine have appeared in many, many poetry magazines . . .
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And my work has been in several poetry anthologies . . .
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Here is my poem "Restless," which appeared in September in the on-line British magazine The Cro Magnon:
Restless
Restlessness rustles.
It nestles – then bristles.
It paces, and taps its fingers on the desk –
It niggles and crackles
And snaps.
It dresses up,
Bustling about the house,
Then shimmies and shudders,
Divesting itself of feathers
And finery, leaving them
Crumpled in a heap.
It rattles and whistles;
It festers, pesters and prickles.
It lusts, reaches for glistening objects –
That vanish, untouched.
Its hair is lifted, rippled
By wind through a window screen
As restlessness trembles, shivers, ruffles
And listens, and shudders.
It bridles, and sidles and slithers
Like sexual disquiet.
It rifles through papers,
And tosses and jumbles them.
It mumbles and mutters and plots.
It turns, lurches and slaps –
It sulks, and subsides.
And here is a sonnet that has not been accepted for publication anywhere -- I just like it:
Spasm
Grief is a pulling inward and contracting
A Slinky stopped. The closing of fan:
A quiet place, hermetically sealed
With rooms for pain in great wallowing pools . . .
Submerging and submerged, gasping for air
We agonize in moments alien to
The anger – and the numbness, which can coat
The hours, keep us blessedly remote.
At other times, there is so much to do:
Things normal people do, as if we care,
As if we share hope with the happy fools
We guard against, no inner thoughts revealed.
Till, gradually, we grope toward life again
And interactions involve more than acting.
Restless
Restlessness rustles.
It nestles – then bristles.
It paces, and taps its fingers on the desk –
It niggles and crackles
And snaps.
It dresses up,
Bustling about the house,
Then shimmies and shudders,
Divesting itself of feathers
And finery, leaving them
Crumpled in a heap.
It rattles and whistles;
It festers, pesters and prickles.
It lusts, reaches for glistening objects –
That vanish, untouched.
Its hair is lifted, rippled
By wind through a window screen
As restlessness trembles, shivers, ruffles
And listens, and shudders.
It bridles, and sidles and slithers
Like sexual disquiet.
It rifles through papers,
And tosses and jumbles them.
It mumbles and mutters and plots.
It turns, lurches and slaps –
It sulks, and subsides.
And here is a sonnet that has not been accepted for publication anywhere -- I just like it:
Spasm
Grief is a pulling inward and contracting
A Slinky stopped. The closing of fan:
A quiet place, hermetically sealed
With rooms for pain in great wallowing pools . . .
Submerging and submerged, gasping for air
We agonize in moments alien to
The anger – and the numbness, which can coat
The hours, keep us blessedly remote.
At other times, there is so much to do:
Things normal people do, as if we care,
As if we share hope with the happy fools
We guard against, no inner thoughts revealed.
Till, gradually, we grope toward life again
And interactions involve more than acting.