The Inherent Irony of Censorship

The Inherent Irony of

From Censorship of Cabanel’s The Birth of Venus.

Censorship of Cabanel's The Birth of Venus

Censorship of Cabanel's The Birth of Venus


Blurred—nigh invisible, perhaps nonexistent—is the line that separates the most abstract of art from a meaningless cacophony of stream-of-consciousness-produced miscellany. Art at times descends into a realm so abstract that its meaning is long forgotten, its original intentions irrelevant; it spins in a black hole whirlpool of pretentious self-perpetuation, boring the well-adjusted, drawing the pseudo-intellectual.

Only Angels Should Be Allowed To Sing

Around the corner from here, past the seedy convenience store, through the run-down house … and under the pile of lumber, you’ll find the portal to heaven.


Note: The quotes in this poem are taken from actual quotes overheard at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts during a visit there.

Hockey Dreams

Thwack/Hockey stick against street hockey ball…

Heavy Metal

It is like a machine…

Blank Pages

They are an open invitation…


She never let me inside her head, but I wish she had, …

Why I Shouldn't Write

I shouldn’t write because I can never come up with good names for my characters…

Why I Write

I write because I can make stuff up from scratch.

The Stranger

There she sat…


Note: This is by no means a completed and polished story. It started as a journal entry (hence the “Untitled”-ness), and sort of morphed its way into short storydom.