Krypton Nights

Krypton Nights Cover

This is my first book.  Zoo Press has since gone under.  A few copies can still be found through Eighth Day Books in Wichita, Kansas, or on Amazon.  Perhaps some day a new edition will come out through another publisher.

If you would like to know something about the origins of the book, please read the Interviews section. 

Here is a sample poem:










Listen, it isn’t even my planet.

I just work here.  A man of letters, mild

mannered, nerves of less than steel.  Yes, I can

outrun most anything--thieves, mid-range sports

sedans, Shoemaker-Levy--can chew

a mouthful of coal to a cud of diamonds,

but I’m not as Delphic as you dream.  I get

sleepapnia, hemorrhoids, runs in my tights. 


I like Gilligan’s Island and late night horror

flick medleys.  Thermonuclear trust funds,

Greenpeace for guns, heavy metal milk lobbyists...

None of it gets me wet the way it used to.

If I could, I’d curl up in my cape

with an old comic, an orange soda,

a little Vivaldi.  No telephone

booths; just Ming the Merciless to take me 


away.  Oh well.  Shit happens.  Worlds collide,

babes fall out of the sky, grow up, get lives.

My flat’s just over there.  No, the brownstone.

Yeah, that one.  Corner room, third from--  No.  Up, up...

Anyway, I took this position because,

frankly, it looked like a job for me.  Now

I’m not so sure anymore.  I’m tired of being,

well, necessary.  You don’t know what it’s like. 


Hardly feeling a thing, seeing through

people, overhearing assassination plots

two countries over and still needing

new underwear every Christmas.  One day

I hate the boots, belt, bikini, this “S” appliqué;

the next, I feel like punching every hornrimmed

dweeb I see.  Dad warned me it might be like this.

“Son,” he said, “you’ll just wanna come home.”  Problem is, 


I can’t.