My image "Twins" is now up at the Red Booth... →
A door I knew is now deceased. Or rather, what was once a portal is now the gateway to a cellar.
The wind hits me a mother “Go in, find a sibling.” Lights on in homes the blind sit side by side. Run wild. Hide the world or sell it. Making a wish or bearing it.
Look, I’m fine with this. I wasn’t going to make it forever. The zombies are relentless and my endurance has A.D.D. I can’t even have a decent cigarette break in the damn zombie apocalypse. The non-smokers don’t give me smug looks anymore. They just try and devour me. What I really want is for the zombie that eventually tracks me down to go for one of my plump thighs...
under the mask there’s a gap between the sweat & lapse of fear where light is welcomed in if it comes as rays not as a flood
The crescent moon of coffee stained on the newspaper is all he reads.
Don’t take pictures of your food, please. If I really want to know what you’re eating I’ll dig through your garbage while you’re sleeping.
You assume you’ve wiped away all the sand you brought home from the beach yet it clings & clings to places you forgot exist.
Coming home, or leaving,/ memory starts churning.
I quite smoking but I can’t quit lighters.
Cold night threatens, folds sun in silence. Ducks have no problem with weeds we scorn. A pebble to boulder, oh other way around.
The animals talk & band together in animated movies. Predators & prey harmonize in song. We must have done something really bad this time around. We don’t see the villan’s face, only a shadow on glass.
Excuses for being lost have faded away; technology has made sure of that. The GPS will get me there except when the calm British woman, doling out instructions, tells me to drive across the Grand Canyon. The male ego to keep going, to see new sights along the back roads is no longer a thrill, no longer entertainment in these days of computer soaked palms. The clock in the right-hand...
My dream’s the door, & I just the railing. In the welcome mat’s stead is pale cement. Love’ll bless this home once the doorbell is on. This morning the alarm clock is an accusation.
Jeremiah Nelson “Skin to Touch”
Too many cowboys, where are the horsemen? Instead of reading a paper they all want their own pen.
The manic among us thrive on life on the lip of the sun all night long. Then, a hook pulls in their brain, Will it rain? Will it snow? The Polaroid’s been tossed away in favor of the digital SLR taking pictures never printed & barely remembered.
Bumped. Tossed. Smashed. A glass is only noticed when its contents are unleashed. Peace & safety are just boring.
Melt down that gold for new bullets. With the rainbow comes Hicthcockian crows. The morning after a dream I am so old.
I HAVEN'T WRITTEN A SHORT STORY IN A WHILE. WHAT...
THICK SOUP During these past nine months, I have been as mediocre as humanly possible. Being average is the hardest way to live. Seriously. I know we just met and that last statement may come off as overwhelmingly self-deprecating, which could lead you to the assumption that I am a pretentious prick. Okay, this could be true but at least give me some time to color in the lines before you leave...
Ninety-one degrees here in the prairie & some cicadas are electric as usual, or is it the usually moribund cemetery asking the sky for another truce?
A mathematician draws circles on his flesh with a sharpie. Reach a cloud by a circuitous route to find an empty hallway.
You Desert (former ocean), home to picturesque dead, fossilized rain. & again, these whines & sobs of a moribund engine, driven by a pale dreamer, fights your hills without a wit- ness to shed a tear.
Wind gust judge hovering prairies & shaving crests of buttes, ending the tiff betwixt a sand- hill crane & a goose. Even horseflies hunker down during a gale.
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Little rain in May or a deluge of it? Consistency from the blurry azure sky is what we yearn for, what some come to covet.
Only a few get statues made of their likenesses. Photographs & busts just aren’t enough for some that go above being beloved to being equally loathed.