top of page
teardrop collider
Skates of Matter
Holy Smoke
Squirrel with Pearl Earring
Streamly Gredible
Downtown Entropy
Parable of Peppers
Carrots and Cream
We are the storis
Mother Love
Taylor of Baghdad
Money Shiva
Check it
I've Been Waiting
Free Speech
Sea ofHoles
Mud on Your Thigh
Another Cut
Snot Girl
Sea of Monsters
Unlucky Lindy's
Love Supreme
The Knapsack
The Edgeof the Known Universe
Very Same Box
Jew Barbecue
On the Road Again
Kootsie Boobie
Under Water
Are We There Yet?
A Box i a Box
Extra Dimension
Down By the River
I'll Neve Forget

The Teardrop Collider


She shrieked with laughter, and the arms of enormous Avram Ider tired before his shin’s throbbing could begin to subside. Briskly kicking the offending board into a nearby hedge, he set her gently down and groped carefully the back of her head. Sighing, he released her to scamper gaily into the house.

Skates of Matter


“If you found one, would it be some thin-lipped nihilist into S&M? Would it be some spite dripping minion with an arsenal of AR-15s and a closet full of dancing boots? Would it be some tattooed skinhead a dozen points shy of a GED?”

Holy Smoke


Dadkook said that he would make the best pope ever, and if he couldn’t get the good smoke then Stan should try. I know what that means because when they make a new pope, holy white smoke comes out the chimney. But my big papa can’t be a pope because he’s Jewish and turtle popes don’t count.

Squirrel with Pearl Earring


"Walter and Hazel? Their last name should be Nutz! Then they could be a pair of swinging nuts!"

"You shut up now, Daddu! Go head now, Obby."

Streamly Gredible


Mournfully he watched the eternal antics of childhood phasing backward and forward from times to timelessness, from unselfish fluency to awkward estimations of nubility. Then, quickly responding to a warning glare, he pushed himself up and launched into semi highstumbling Russian duckwalks.

Downtown Entropy


“The Big Bang is us. The Big Bang is you.” He explained carefully as if to quietly reassure his child everything would somehow be alright.

Life is Not  All Carrots and Cream

They danced around trees and rolled down grassy hills.  They cooled their toes in the rushing river.

And he put her in his pouch and together they gallumped here and there, far and wide.

A Parable of Peppers

So we schlepped back, all four of us toward the Place of Pho. We returned the jar to its original table and, demurely, the girls apologized to a dumbly astounded waiter. Well, Jessie seemed truly penitent, but Gretel was clearly overacting, the idea of “penance” to her being quite exotic, romantic, and (who knows?) maybe somewhat incipiently venereal.

and the Riverbank Talks


“Listen Gretty.” His voice was high again. “You know I’ll go through this door again. You want me to count again? You want we should go to court again? Should I count ten?” He cracked open the cracked door and counted down in a low soft voice.

Extra Dimensions


Maths don’t describe nuttin any more than your eyes, your nose, or your ears can describe sumpin. You sense a thing in all kinds of ways, but that doesn’t let ya describe it. Try describing music. You can’t. 

A Box in a Box

Mournfully he watched the eternal antics of childhood phasing backward and forward from times to timelessness, from unselfish fluency to awkward estimations of nubility. Then, quickly responding to a warning glare, he pushed himself up and launched into semi highstumbling Russian duckwalks.

Are We There Yet?

"And those Snotlaws was very tough. Right?"

"Are you kidding? And mean too. One time some lowlife Irish Mafia types started a gang war by stiffing them in a hooch deal. So the Snotlaws, Debuty Barney Fife, and High Sheriff Andy Gritshole all get in their big old Snotlaw jalopy and drive to Beverly Hills and kidnap Al Capone and drug him back to their pigpen and mack him bark like a dog."

Under Water

I wish Obby were here still. I can’t sleep with just myself and Mr. Schnoob. Daddu won’t sleep with us now. And Nunco Stan won't. They won’t even let me ax them. At Carol Ann’s, Gracie and Marbles will sleep in a bed with me or on a couch. At least Gracie will. Mommy wouldn't never let me sleep with her.

The Land of Kootsie Boobie

But most people blamed Mr. Mo Manydays.  Some did this because his writings helped them remember how they used to be happy, and this made them even sadder.  Others blamed him because they thought he should have kept some memories away from some people who were much better off forgetting.


The pain was inside him and out. It was in each crate, labeled, color coded, and neatly stacked forming a tall corridor encircling the nonliving room. It was in the books piled high on each step of the way up to treacherous bedrooms and bathrooms above. It was in piles of unsorted debris on chairs, the floor, and on the couch leaving only space enough for one small crowded nest where his daughter slept every night they stayed here stuck.

On the Road Again

A surly onion breathing rabble jeered raucously, pelting her with curses and offal. Every painful step was a delicate and perilous gamble. Would she stumble on some loose tumblesome cobblestone, or would the bones of her back or her trembling knees crumple under the strain? Or, most likely, the beating heat of the sun and the throbbing ache of fresh lashwounds would soon overcome her wavering grip on consciousness.

Jew Barbecue

“But she couldn’t forgive him.”

“Right. But who’s fault was that?” He smiled ravenously at the dewy young waitress and ordered a slab of ribs with sweetened iced tea. “Do the ribs come with bacon? . . . And anyway, forgive him for what? Surviving?”

In the Very Same Box

“Universes!  . . . If senses just gather hints, and language is part of that hinting system, then maybe music and poetry are too. Especially music.  And every new sense system doesn’t just find new dimensions, they might be building new universes!  Infinitely! . . . Here. Just take the card. I don’t need to see the bill.  . . . Were we ever that young? Were we never that beautiful?”

The Edge of the Known Universe

She’s getting toward that age.”

“Getting?  Have you been paying attention?  She’s there. She’s tiny and acts it. Very freakn’ immature. But she’s there. Past the event horizon.”

Three Generations of Imbeciles

Manicured fertilized greengrass greensward. Pleasant looking buildings.

There's someone. Tweedy. Waspy. No Jews allowed. Only the masterful race. We will teach your blue eyed speech. To the unbelievers.

I wonder if cell phones work here. It was easy to drive in. But waddabout driving out? They need fresh meat. Fresh blood. Fresh genes.  

The Knapsack

They watched her zigzag between graves in ever widening circles around their forsaken nucleus, often ducking behind a stone, peeping up to make sure they were still watching, blinking in and out of existence.

A Love Supreme

The girl danced to her own music. Her father swayed to his. A high wind blew, drawing warmth upward from the graves and the grass. It bent the treetops.  

Unlucky Lindy's

She didn’t want to be taken away from her father or from Carol Ann and Stan. They might put her in a home where a boy could put a baby in her. She wondered about being a boy. They could put babies in a dozen girls a night for weeks and not even know. No matter what they said, she didn’t think she could get a baby yet. But - what if?

Sea of Monsters

After some scrambling confusion, Abe saw her first. Like a dreadnaught Moses, ignoring squealing brakes and warning horns, he plowed through the commuting sea and, panting, gathered his limp girlchild into shaking arms.

“What are you trying to do to me?” was all he thought to say.

Snot Girl

And Avram Ider, gripping his wheel, sitting stiffly, driving straight ahead, thrusted forward by family stabs behind and before, growled and growled and growled long after the coyotes had settled themselves down.

Butterflies Are Not Free

Moishe Ider

1930 - 2015

Auschwitz II–Birkenau


There was nothing about sawmills, studies, languages, parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, or brothers. Nothing about Israel, Hagganah, airplanes, or grenades. Nothing about plumbing supply. Nothing about hobbies, stories and strange structures of PVC. Nothing about being a docent. Nothing about a son or a daughter. Nothing about grandsons. And nothing about a granddaughter.

Another Cut

She turned again to study the girl in a white dress standing casually among others so dressed and in various states of posed busyness, the only one addressing the camera. It was like a hair salon, only it wasn't.


So I said he should talk like how intelligent he really was, and as soon as I said that I knew it wasn't me. That was something Mudder used to say and it was her voice too, not mine, even in the sound of it. The way Daddu looked at me, I knew he knew it too.

Here's Mud on Your Thigh

Obby told me his mud was a good cook too. She hardly knew how to read but knew lots of stories. When they were in the sheep pen, I bet she kept him warm even though she was shivering herself.

Sea of Holes

"And this. This! This is my fault too. All of us. We've been slurping in capitalist urinals. We've been sleeping. We've been sleepwalking, and these broken, godforsaken, empty, ignorant, smutaddled schmucktards are not the only zombies. They are not the only ghouls.  

Free Speech

“We’re not against free speech. We’re against NAZIs”

“Everybody’s against NAZIs. My mom specially.”

“Everybody’s against NAZIs except, apparently, NAZIs”.

I've Been Waiting So Long

She didn’t say anything. Sitting on the sofa, she leaned in and pushed her head against his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her and she put a hand on his arm. She saw the numbers blurry through dark hairs, and she closed her eyes.

Check it Out

And Paul McCartney could be a proton because a proton can still be anywhere even when it’s in a hydrogen that’s in a water that’s in a blood cell that’s in a turtle that’s in an ocean that’s on a planet that’s in a solar system that’s in a galaxy that’s in a cluster that’s in a supercluster that’s in in a universe that’s in a turtle that’s in another turtle that’s in the mind of Ja, the turtle inside and outside all turtles.



Nobody remains forever young, and maybe things do ‘get better’ as you age.  But why would any good person want ever to have a child? How could they witness it exposed to all this even when they didn’t croak first? Carol Ann said God sent children to their chosen parents, but Carol Ann, who took nobody else’s bullshit, could always bullshit herself.

Money Shiva

It took a few days. I saw his feet turned blue, but I never heard any rattle. His face just got grayer and grayer, and when his breathing got hoarse they pumped more Fentanyl. His last breath was all alone one night. There weren’t any machines that went BEEP, and no line to watch go flat.

The Weaver of Baghdad

“And for many years this weaver, a prattler whose name was Al Bak Buk, remained confined safely and, despite his mental deficiencies, grew ever more skillful in his chosen craft. In his secluded tower he produced ever finer cloths and fabrics incorporating scenes and patterns of much vividness and intrigue."

What I Don't Know Alone I'll Never Forget

They could be mixed with cement and molded into gargoyle figurines. Dud could be sculpted into a horny chubby Kokopelli chasing corny coeds with humpfulls of trinkets and furs. Mud’s ashes could form a hissing dryad, rootbound but arching up to slash back with razor twigged branches.

Then she thought “felt feet”. Their boxy sarcophagi needed green scratchproof pads glued beneath. She grabbed the caskets and set them on a checker-work of books arrayed over bedcovers, sliding them like fat kings and queens up, down, over, and around, sometimes clicking in gentle collisions. Enthralled to her, they glided from light to dark, red to green, black to tan, hardcover to paperback with butt shaking, Lindy Hopping, and just a bit of doggy style humping.

We Are The Stories We Tell Ourselves

It’s all her. Everything that makes us is now her. Everything that made us. And, I’ll never get away. We’ll never get away. Once you have a child, you’re pinned and pulled down forward forever by whatever seizes us . . . by whatever never lets us go.

Mother Love

That burly truck driver with the nervous tic? He led armed men in partisan forests hiding children and elders safe deep under crunchy snows. That cigar coughing seller of death insurance? He dragged informants from their grease smoke kitchens and punched bullets between their anguished eyes under iceclad pines. That raccoon eyed librarian? Following the loud sounding roundup of siblings, parents, cousins, and urine scented grandparents, she huddled her taut frame too tightly round a smothered baby niece in an empty cistern behind a frozen coal bin until the last loose heirloom was looted by friendly neighbors from her noosed family’s ransacked farm. That saturnine shuffler? He never hurt a fly. He just survived.

Screen Shot 2022-09-20 at 11.59.30 AM.png
bottom of page