a surface of insentience
I agree to be hypnotized. I believe going deeper might slow my tapping foot.
My left foot is always the first thing to unfold. My face gives nothing away.
Tennessee says horrible things about me. She waits to hear the clang of my
car door after work before she starts talking. Continue reading…
Namaste blog family
This morning the button was pushed and my first collection of poetry is now available on Lulu.
I’m not being pessimistic when I say I don’t expect many purchases, I’m being realistic. Poetry usually only sells after you croak. I’ve got a few books I’m working on that I’ll pitch to publishers and possibly sell down the line. The poetry book is for hardcore cult members – exclusively.
I sold one today, to sister number three… for those just catching up… I’ve got four sisters. I’m the youngest. My sisters literally construct who I am. My sister that bought my book is also a Writer. One day I’ll buy her book… because that’s what sisters do. Continue reading…
dormant details shaking sense
You open your eyes with foreign disorientation. Beside you is someone you loved a very long time ago. The fact that you loved them isn’t on your mind – it’s the way that you loved them.
You loved this person in a new way when they told you to never wear lipstick because ‘…your mouth is too beautiful to be covered with anything except for my lips.’
And when you kissed, it was like swallowing sky. Continue reading…
In between poetry booking there a million or so other word directions I’m playing with… and many etceteras and so ons…
For example:
Adrianna is not like most addicts. Hans has never assumed her to be so. The drugs started so the voices might cease. He has finally discovered her… right now. Walking in her steps down First Avenue. Continue reading…
the prettiest girl of all
Claudia is one of those hip girls with the right words and the right blood. Bank account blood that buys her big shoes and pays for her expensive apartment. Blood that gives you blonde hair and a straight nose. Thin thighs and slate blue eyes. Continue reading…
Agnes isn’t afraid of narcotics. You used to tell yourself something about you frightened her – this romantic vision of love’s intimidation. The only thing she’s scared of is death. The fact you could never tell whether she’s high or not is just another inch on a twelve-mile pile of disappointment. Continue reading…
‘Don’t drink today,’ says Charlie slapping my ass as a welcomed gust of air-conditioning puffs out the door of the Lexington Avenue entrance to Grand Central Station. Continue reading…
He’s the sort of character that makes your pupils dilate. My black hole gaze is tracing the shift of his shoulders and sway of his hips as his expression of nearness rapidly unveils. Continue reading…
Layla has legs that stop traffic, like the ordinary stride of Lester’s steps that usually know nothing about yellows and reds. She whisks him with a linen swish on the corner of eighth that evokes the question, ‘Why don’t you let me buy you lunch?’
Layla drinks dirty grey goose martinis with her left hand and a temporary expectation of Lester saying something other than, ‘That’s a lovely watch, are you concerned about the time?’ Lester’s lack of consideration toward the set of accessories reflecting rays of light through Layla’s third empty martini glass means that she’s not thinking about watching any clock. Continue reading…
Agnes has lips that bleed when she smiles.
She’s driving down twisting back roads somewhere east. The windows of the 1976 Plymouth Duster are rolled down. Her summer world smells like fresh cut grass.
The luminous linger of 8.30pm during daylight savings. The strength of the sun dips into warm rest.
The car is stolen. Continue reading…
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