A Poem: Kitsune


For Brigid, who lives in many places

Remember the burrow and your blind brothers
the day your slate gray eyes and ear canals opened
there were warm bodies around you, all fighting for the teat
all aware of the darkness and the mess, the way food spoiled on
the ground and the rumor light and snow.

One day when your nose was caked with the blood
of weak sibling, you realize why they break you open. Not just to feed
on you to make room for the strong but to be reborn. The others
are too small to understand but you know that someday
you will be broken open too, that a hand will reach into your body
and give you magic.

The burrow opens and you take your first cautious steps. The others,
whose rumps you’ve nipped, follow meekly behind, are also stunned
by the crisp scent of grass and unripe berries, the dung of a raccoon,
the body of a bisected mouse, the fungus sprouting on the edge
of the woods, in the shadow of a pine, where a circle of snow,
has been casually dropped…

like undergarments cast off before jumping into a pond
a backpack thrown behind the kitchen door
a girl fallen off her sled after it has struck the fence and her
life has begun to seep into the snow, drawing you closer
as your eyes shift from gray to amber and you remember
that you were the first to taste flesh, the first to forage,
the first to hear the crying and understand what it meant.


A Poem: The U

In another universe my son tells me to go screw myself
I throw a drinking glass at him and my wife
Doesn’t do anything because she left three months
Earlier and doesn’t give a crap if we kill each other.

In another universe my son gets a college scholarship
Because he wrote an essay about his father and
His mother and how they taught him to value
Kindness over intelligence.

In another universe I am an actor, walking on a
Famous stage playing a teacher and knowing
That if I stand just this way and tilt my head just that
Way that people will cry.

In another universe I am a teacher, acting in
Front a class and knowing that if I break down
The idea of the maple tree and show
Them where to drive in the tap, that they too

May slide from one world to another, fight
Parents and not get hurt, learn that families
Are the best education, and know that the spotlight
Is both a blessing and a curse.

Anatomy Of An Ever-Changing First Line

Correction: I went and changed that first line yet again!   Scroll down to see it.. 7/10/18


I’ve got a new novel, Grave Men, and as I try to find it a home, I figured I’d share a little content and a little process with folks who stumble across this blog.

Enjoy, Ian

In an effort to polish my manuscript, I’ve agonized over every character, every detail, every line. And often I’ve looked at the first line and wondered if I’ve found a good way to start this genre-crossing monster of a novel, which I affectionately refer to as my midlife crisis paranormal detective novel. Yikes!

The first line of a short story can be a microcosm of meaning and nuance. Clues to character and conflict abound. Ironies present themselves. Tone and purpose can be established. Or in a few cases red herrings are tossed into the pond for readers to chase. But with this novel I decided to focus mostly on the character of my crusty detective, Babineaux.

I settled on the short sentence, “Babineaux yawned big.”

It’s an image of a content middle-aged man. Once full of angst and anger, once violent and unfocused, Babineaux is now a sleepy bureaucrat, waiting on a pharmacist to deliver his meds so he can enjoy a lazy summer day.

With a single suggestive name, he is the novel’s exile, its wanderer, its searcher, and at times its dragon. His yawn is a sign that he is waking up from a twenty-year slumber. And even though waking dragons tend to be dangerous, the “big” is also a compliment, a sign that the large man with the diminutive attached to his name, has finally grown to the right proportions and that, perhaps, he is now ready for the case being thrown at him.

To learn a little more about Babineaux’s dark quest and how far it will pull him back into his uncertain past, go to my author site and check out the first few scenes of Grave Men.


Okay the new first line(s)…

There was no email for Babineaux. At fifty-five he was an investigator who needed a postmark and a paper trail, an oversized bureaucrat who thoroughly enjoyed lining up details and checking grammar, old school, like his bifocals, his big gray beard, and the night-mist blue Mustang he’d roll out of his garage once the snow had melted and it had rained at least twice. He was patient, too, didn’t mind waiting in line at the Post Office to mail his reports. Didn’t get annoyed either when the lady pharmacist butchered his name and took forever to track down his meds.