fingers hover over keys storm clouds over a city so close-- almost touching fingertips to rooftops one drop, two, a million pour a story bounces off bricks throws itself into gutters drains to the sewer muddy mess lingers weeds sprout between the cracks but wildflowers take root too
Bed like a temple where only I am allowed to worship. Bed like a cloud from an oil painting so full and heavy. Bed like a hammock in paradise so quiet and cradling. I sink between the layers, and stretch in the deliciousness.
Too many of my days pass in dry blinks and blurred moments between phone calls, text messages, and the never-ending flash of a notification to remind me of one-more-thing To Do before I can be Done. I burn, I pine, I perish-- for when I was young and blonde and had yet to carve the wrinkles … Continue reading April 10 : On Adulthood
Shhf-shhf-shhf... polyester coats rub against armrests and lights dim as speakers surge-- a signal to be quiet. But cellophane crackles like static and a greedy palm fills with hard-shelled candied noisemakers readily popped and crunched between teeth. Salted, greasy fingers rummage in waxed bags before giving the kernels a good toss-- shick shick-- to find that perfect puffed piece. A rasping, lisping … Continue reading April 9 : A Not-So-Quiet Place
A blustery Sunday afternoon, snow falling in fat too-wet-to-stay flakes mixing with slow raindrops more typical of early spring. I'm bundled inside a worn leather booth, warmed by the industrial heater vent above me and the pitcher of boozy lemonade sweating on the table. A lazy hour ticks by and I'm swimming in it now, … Continue reading April 8 : Sunday in Spring
Typewriter Moon 