poetry book, porsche, prose, sisters

Namaste blog family

This morning the button was pushed and my first collection of poetry is now available on Lulu.

Support independent publishing: Buy this book 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.

Yesterday was emotional and suck-filled. I intended on spending the day sulking because all of the people I’d celebrate book finishing with are in Australia or various US states that aren’t New York. However, I wound up hopping the train a few suburbs out and spending the evening cruising around in a

Porsche, inhaling salt water, and listening to live music with an old friend of mine and fellow Artist… we were both happier after the fact.

I might be a hippy that doesn’t drive… but fast cars are hot.

I’m a bit over poetry at the moment. I’m going to put together a collection of prose. Maybe once I get all these collections out of my system I’ll finish one of my novels…

I wrote this today, sitting on a stoop during lower east side lurking.

unleash plummet

Something sets when he speaks. A sun, moon, stars understanding rests upon the ordinary unsettlement of her shaky stomach. Two syllables of ‘perhaps’ are a low spoken sonata humming her awake from dreams of a mahogany stare.

Without saying a word…

She regularly waits beside water, and with no belief in time moments spent become pictures. Painting him thought portraits with musical memories of when he last spoke her name to a violet strip of dawn.

Releasing uncontrolled privacies…

Waves are reliable, she thinks to herself sensing his rhythm in every gentle salt lap rolling along the shore. Her lungs fill with ocean air and she tastes his voice in the back of her throat.

The flavor of falling…

In a cave with no flame she guides herself along cool, uneven walls that tint her fingertips grey. The darkness is expected, and there’s always comfort in the delivery of expectation. To a girl that says so little, such adjustment is liberating.

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