Golden tendrils on her shoulder
no rhyme, no reason, just getting older
her half-pint work of exhaltation
now serves as mere constant frustration.
I hold a book to my chest,
wondering how much time to invest.
Should I help her get her daughter to sleep-
for sure our friendship that will reep.
I will only be stepping on toes.
and this is how the childless thinking goes.
Tickle your toes. . .
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in August for John Keats I didn't die unrequited. I took a wife in August. My wife was wearing silky white shoulders holding out her bon...
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a know-nothing non-something, a song, a back-slap, a tree without sap. crowned with ceremony and melancholia- a whistle, a snap. a marriage ...
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There is a hidden warmth in you you do not show to others and it pulls me under like quick sand. Or maybe it is the movement of the sands th...
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That previous December, a little voice was coyly in-treat-ing: "Take an angry butcher knife to your hair, and paint it the color of a s...
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Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
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like me- it serves as a question as well as an appropriately foolish letter in bad company it only teams up with words like yodel, ...
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Rain, dearest friend. You know just when to pound on my head. I know there is more to this world, than what I have given from inside myself....
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There is something spooky about me. I am certain of it. Or else why does the thought of you dying for me, somehow slightly perk me up. Bette... -
driving home from the farmer's market- I can't see anything- through this storm- I come home to sleep- with you-rest in your arms fu... -
motionless sap. ogling your shadow, you have much thinking to do. has the potassium kicked you in the arse yet-and got you going? you a...
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