What the eye can’t see, the heart won’t grieve over
Grey skies above us, nothing but grey skies
Jonathan spent most of the reception in the parking lot by himself, smoking under the far reaching eaves of the hotel’s side entrance. The hum of air conditioners and heaters competed above him. From room to room the hum differed, the temperature hovering between too hot and too cool, depending on the occupant’s age and level of physical activity. The constant drip of lukewarm water...
Love and Summer
I want them both back.
How (and for god’s sake, why?!) is Bukowski suddenly trendy??? I don’t think I can handle this.
I have three sisters
a.k.a. don’t mess with us.
Oh, what a tangled web I weave!
Oh, what a tangled web I weave of blue ribbons, white lace and black satin, all strung in an elegant fashion with one word whispered in the wrong ear and one invitation accepted out of pity. You’re a damn fool if you think this is pretty, and burning it down would leave an awful mess. I guess there are girls who ponder it all away but I’m too far in to not scream my way out. I shout...
If the ending must come
I’d rather we end in a rage so my thoughts of you might easily go up in flames and burn red and ravenous against the black inkwell of the sky, flecked through, bled out… at least I’d feel something in the hollowed silence and perhaps even welcome with beckoning hands this cold spring rain upon my flushed and furious face.
C'est la vie
I wish it wasn’t.
Son of a ________
You tricky boys turned that phrase mother this mother may I blind man’s bluff and Oedipus Rex but that was Freud’s problem so why bother the rest?
If a picture is worth a thousand words, a tasteful “goddamn” is worth at least a hundred.
Here’s a bitter respite when she’s done near all she can to change his mind for better and chase away that hopelessness and weary desolation every good man falls prey to.
love like that
oh my fairy tale ended on such a high note and that’s why i suppose, sitting here in this sun room alone and quiet with february flora the hardy variety that is to say not star-faced lotus flowers or dew-eyed african violets but a single easter lily blooming two months too early, i smile.
Brass Medley No. 1
Miss Billie Holliday, unassuming as always, wearing white gloves and a smirk of red lipstick, croons her way through my stereo speakers and pierces straight through to my soul.
said one to the other
now less in telling more I say in shouting down the kings of heaven fast-fallen angels now here bidden falsely dealing unclaimed wisdom do this do that and don’t run with scissors (here she smokes a cigarette, unfiltered) hello ms. pot, hello dear kettle.
Foolish will my wants away I never had a handle on this and you with your fancy irony tricked me one for the queen’s jokers two for the girl in the scarlet red coat that’s nothing against you just too much of one thing and not enough of the other.
My Glorious Mud Pies
Forgive me, you walked into this slander. Hurling them at you would probably suffice but I think I’ll wait ‘til you sit down beside me and then I’ll feed you a slice.
One of my short fiction pieces has been included in Volume 11, Number 1 of The Copperfield Review and can be found here: http://www.copperfieldreview.com/fiction/The%20Little%20Things.htm Pure historical fiction, a luncheon on the Titanic.
Drown or freeze? Given the choice of death at thy ease?