All Good Things…

Opening Night of Thomas Keller's Bouchon
November 16, 2009 – Beverly Hills, CA Environmental Opening Night of Thomas Keller’s Bouchon Photograph By Jacqueline Miccalizzi© Berliner Studio/BEImages

I am fortunate to be a writer. I have worked doing what I love, even if not all writing has been fun. Writing fun quickly withers if you have to do it for a living. My paid writing assignments have varied in scope and subject matter from the mind-curdling banal to the wildly exciting.

One assignment I rather enjoyed for the research I had to do on subjects for which I have passion, food and travel, was writing for the site, which kept me researching and salivating while luxuriating in luscious pictures of gorgeous food, decor and scenery. I loved the job and am sad to see it end as the site is taking a new direction and/or going on hiatus.

Here are five articles I wrote for this site that I hope you enjoy:

For the Finest Dining in Los Angeles, Feast at These 5 French Restaurants

Our Choices for the 5 Finest French Restaurants in Las Vegas


10 Great Things to Do in Seattle for Free


Santa Monica’s Amazing Seafood: Ten Spots to Try


7 Unique Seattle Hotels That Will Truly Amaze You

courtroom casino

A shivering mass in a cold-lit courtroom,
slunked skinny in government issue chair,
the lone “ring leader” sat in grim-lip stare.
Straight ahead at nothing in particular upon
a judge’s dispassionate immovable face, the
charged steered a red-rimmed vision eroded.
A shuffle, a gurgle, a sigh, a sniff and a cough,
and the whole matter was decided on a whim.
Scales tip in no one’s favor but the beholder.
A life’s mere matter, flesh forged in fire image
and fluttering time, like dust on butterfly feet.
And the revolving door justice spun 7’s today. 

The Dancing Devils’ Eve

Three sports minded looking (shorts, windbreakers, running shoes) 

men in their late sixties, early seventies in fine fit shape, 

eating frozen yogurt and chatting about American Idol, 

debating which singers touch their hearts rather than 

merely their ears and how Adele, who has a powerful voice,

sings the same sounding songs all the time while outside

the kidlets also dressed in shorts, tennies and windbreakers,

 well they just spin and run and chase and throw caps to the floor

“Pop!” and squeal and drag little sisters and brothers by the hand.

As I in my cloud of sleepless fuzz watch behind a counter through 

the protective pane of legitimacy, bleary eyed, she who cannot

help but listen and let the wordy notes of lilting song and sting

float in and out of me, touching my nerves in a gentle buzz and click,

anodizing the metal of my thoughts to clumping the hours abiding.

A glance at my bloody finger, cuticle ripped down to the root, reminds

me the angst trembles beneath the calm veneer–tomorrow’s near,

and the dancing devils and retinue request (demand) my presence. 

To the Thief Who Stole a Teacher’s Textbook


I wish no ill will

if to steal will fulfill

a desire to learn–

a worthwhile return–

in literary taste

as is truly the case

in so fascinting a text

“What happens next?”

The suspense never ending

in essays mind bending

priced at a mere 100 bucks

which to you probably sucks

because you obviously can’t pay

so keep it and have a joyful day.

Oh, and the essay on morality

skip it lest it damper joviality

at having stolen a book

to resell to some schnook

who’ll think he struck gold

at this collection re-sold

replete with scribbles galore

like none sold at the book store

but good luck deciphering words

gifts as intended but to  fools, absurd.


In Patience…


…We wait.

For doctor calls,

nurse triage,

pharmacy fills

hospital beds

pressing 1,

then 3,

then 0,

then more numbers

and more

and more

and more

and then a voice

another voice

and then

a dead end.

Start over.

A doctor,

we need

a doctor


the wall

of admins

like fortresses

hide them

protect them

in gall.


to live

beyond the

chains of care

of health-








In the Key of Hate

The trump-er grown loud in palsied anger

defeaned himself to the mad deranger 


One penless poet in an inkwell stared

down letter-less pages of his dreams bared


The world’s gone bonkers at last I tell you

rightside up is sideways blowing up truth


When growing rich means exploding idols

and viscous real estate steals upturn skulls


Time then once and for all to scrap the deal

that fear-stuffed progress regressives pig squeal.






Magic Cure

“Healing is a matter of time, but it is sometimes also a matter of opportunity.” Hippocrates

In Greece, Hippocrates freed medicine from magic, 

deigning it dignified as the rational science.

Logically, medicine delivers cure, but

she’s sick again, for too long now.

No longer believing in time,

no hope sustains her.

We need magic. 

Cardiff by the Sea


When the blue of sky and sea meet on the sun’s canvas, the world’s ills dissipate like wave vapor, crashed,  floated and sprayed, melding with motion, recycling life for us who pass through.

Buffoonery and lies flee then, preferring cyber print to airy flights and icy dives in the Earth’s teal liquid split from firmament in places and times like these: the road peeled back revealing popped village pockets like blisters.

Here, when the blues of stinging seas sob seabird song, throngs of the foolish schools of the unschooled turn to the sun, seeking to bleach wrongs white or pure golden.

No trace,  no nothing’s wrong here, the luscious hues just right for jog by smiles and sweet sweaty necks peeking through white pressed cotton tees tucked in creased linen tennis shorts.

A former Welsh fortress by the ocean free stands no longer firm, gone now but for those unaffected running on, keeping the tepid in and the cracked walled out, improbable as a teapot set sail on a vapid cup of tea.

Cardiff by the Sea breezes by me now and blushes me bright with springy lies of lucky losers and terrible saints, infamy tamed palatably blue, the color of infinity.

Eggs Out


“I was going to make you a cake, but I had no eggs,” she cried and then crumpled to the floor. No consoling her. She was crushed, fragile as the empty space where the egg carton used to be–a shadow of a former delicate, susceptible embryo container.

She too had been plucked from her mother’s warmth too soon, arresting her world in a devil’s playground of tears and fearful misfortunes always on the verge, always.

“It’s okay, really okay. It was their time to fly. You couldn’t have known. It’s not your fault. I love cake, but I love you more. Come up and sit beside me this time, just now.” 

She wiped her nose in the plaid flannel folds of her elbow and rose. It was over.