In my sleep, I’m haunted by ghosts.
Sometimes it’s Luciano; he’s come home late after an evening with friends. I hear the 
door close and I can hear the clang of his belt as the weight of his pockets draws his jeans to the floor; I can feel his shirt being stripped from his torso like cellophane; then our bed tilts like a little rowboat as he lifts the comforter and slides in behind me. “Hijo,” I whisper, “did you have fun with your friends?”
“Si,” Luciano whispers between light kisses on my throat and shoulder, “Si, Papi, but I missed you,” he continues, his kissing becoming more determined.
“I’m asleep,” I whisper while rolling onto my back, feeling his weight rise, then fall atop me. In the darkness, I can feel his humidity, I can feel his breathy stare. “I’m not 
handsome now,” I whisper. “Jajaja, Papi,” he whispers into my ear, softly purring, “You’re always handsome.”
My hands drift to his strong flanks which remain bathed in cotton, my fingers delve into the fabric, beneath it, finding his strong buttocks. I pull him closer, wanting 
his entire weight atop me, pushing my breath from my lungs. He lifts himself up from me, then lowers himself into a comfortable position, moving his hips delicately.
We’ve ridden on this train before. It always takes us to some far-flung destination; across valleys and up across mountains; through treacherous, snow drifted passes; then down deep into pastoral valleys.
But this night, this ghostly night, no trip will be taken.
This night, like so many aching nights, my Luciano is only a mirage.
where I lived. I wanted to live in an icon. And in Chicago, there’s no greater icon than the Hancock Tower. I mean, you don’t even need to give anyone, and I mean anyone, the address. All you need to say is the Hancock Tower.
Trump Tower. All three were born to the same design firm, Skidmore, Owings & Merrill LLP, and for which I worked for eleven years.
Alistair opened the vestibule door with great purpose. He glanced at Mrs. Carmichael who rose quickly from her desk and dogged him as he stormed into his office where he spotted Qiana Reece, Curator of the R.J. Cooper Collection rising from one of the handsome yet hard winged-back chairs. He turned quickly to glare at Mrs. Carmichael.
charge in life, like many writers, is to live life and express it through words to my audience. It doesn’t matter the genre or the subject. I must feel the anguish of life and expose myself in order to place it into words so that others can experience it as well. I suppose I could argue that it’s my charge, that it’s some romantic ideal. But it’s not. It’s an awful existence. Full of pain and sorrow, and I suppose, like the sun that breaks through a deep, cloudy day, my writing will move you. Move you to be a bigger, better person. Perhaps to inspire you to follow your dreams. And in the very least to take a few minutes out of your busy life to sit with me for a few minutes and let me 
say the things which break my heart. And so to the thousands and thousands and thousands of people that read my posts, I want you to know that I’ll never disappoint you, because I cherish each and every one of you, more than I’m certain you’ll ever know. I write to you, personally, my life, and I always consider you to be my good friends.
