Tag: Creative Writing
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The Translucent Wander Pain
Looking through her red box On a stormy, sunny day A cold room full of hot heart It was a different time In a faraway place Found out all about the only unforgivable thing she did again Had to fly away from the bad news Park my ride and drink away the hard bruise And Read more
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The Druid Dream Urinal Ship
The baby nearly crawled off the airport food court table because we were too busy arguing. I threw down a wrinkled five-dollar bill and told her to just leave. I had a flight to Tulsa to catch and I was beginning to panic about being late, but she just wouldn’t stop with the gnawing upon Read more
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Midnight in March
I sometimes wonder about the blood on Mars and the indigo stilettos on the streets of New York. The ‘tack, tack, tack’ sound against the sidewalk beneath the bourbon leaves of an autumn day as I look out my open window encased in old world brown brick with crumbling mortar. I’ve been trying to rid Read more
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Skeleton List
The fair light peaks at dawn this heart flattered by the rush another perilous tick tock another band of blue in a seemingly endless veil of gray say something for once say something that is real There’s a motion in the air tonight as souls weave and collapse through American freedom Tees the land of liberty Read more
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The Lake Blue Animating Principle
this angel skull of Harlem doesn’t sing or sink like the wind. it’s laundry day in Manitowoc, the MAT is down by the old Navy ship resting in its watery grave and the sky and the rain is so damn gray and sad as I hoist canvas bag over shoulder like some old-time dirty clothes Read more
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The Orange Motel
It was somewhere between Q-Town and the LA basin of all that glitters and orange grove cathedrals that there came the great snow and I was forced to shut down in some Arizona town— I was in between lives, feverishly dodging the corruption of compassion that come raining down all over the world like a Read more
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Roswell 1969
The low machine hum of the big, big city is entrenched in gaslight dawn. The birds and the killers are mum, waiting for the razor light of god’s heart to percolate and breed as the handmade souls rise, wash and run. And it was a hot day in the desert, a blowtorch sky was blowing Read more
CEREAL AFTER SEX 