Kevin Thaddeus FisherPaulson
Biography of Kevin Thaddeus FisherPaulson
Kevin Thaddeus Fisher-Paulson studied writing at the University of Notre Dame, with subsequent coursework at the University of Oregon and the University of Iowa. He studied in workshop with Dorothy Allison and Steve Abbott.
Kevin's book, A Song for Lost Angels, was a silver medalist in the Benjamin Franklin Award and a finalist in the National Independent Bookseller Awards. His stories also appear in When Love Lasts Forever and the Human Agenda.
Kevin's performance works have appeared in the National AIDS Theater Festival, Theater Rhinoceros and the ODC NextWave Festival.
Kevin and his husband Brian live in mysterious San Francisco with their two adopted sons and four rescue dogs.
Kevin Thaddeus FisherPaulson's Works:
A Song for Lost Angels, When Love Lasts Forever, the Human Agenda
Kevin Thaddeus FisherPaulson Poems
You skip as a stone across the sea but come to rest too soon upon the sand. You changed the earth; you changed the sky.
Believe the totem. Embrace the wisdom of the mother deer staring at you chewing on grass
Sunday morning, in the fireplace embers, soot and shards of glass are all that’s left. On a Saturday night he twisted the knob on the door of thick wood,
The Sun Sets All Ways
The sun sets all ways in the west as the shadows grow Indigo follows the red as darkness scratches around the garden, the lilacs close, the calallilies led
'Veni, Vedi, Veci' Your right hand reaches, your index finger beseeches
While walking through Muir Woods I step upon an ancient burl. The snap cracks the forest, then silence. Shadows give way to morning. A gold-tipped hawk screeches as it wheels beyond
I buried the puppy in the blue shade of spruce sapling
In every page I seek his ghost. I write in a dead man’s journal, begging to be haunted, to be hunted by the slipping moonlight.
I flew down to the sky glaciers when the summer mountains still held snow when the light limned longer than my solstice and an eagle circled, searching.
The social worker took my triplets in a sports sedan, back to the woman who had broken them. She would not take the chipped plaster Saint Jude.
When you asked me about San Francisco, and who I had become and what I missed most of the other coast,
Yet even in the deepest of night, the dark is never whole, cannot stop sight. The dark Is broken in the vacuum by
U.S.1, Headed North
Pacific Coast Highway Headed North Down and Up the Hills of Fogtown
Syringa Vulgaris In the backyard of our home in Yaphank, a single lilac grew between the scrub pines,
The Last Drag
My hair askew with
that lopsided look you get
sleeping in a chair
in a hospital, the copy of Isabel Allende’s Zorro
fallen to the floor.
He had woken up before me, humming to the
drip of morphine,