Fugue

I remember an obsession. I built it myself from wishes to horses. Conceived in a hug and a blush, quickened by preening pirouettes, it seeded the fugue of my madness and crashed in ignoble blackness. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (We still talk)

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I done something

It doesn’t look much like you see in the movies.  Well, depending on how long you leave it sit, it changes colour and gets a little syrupy.  Marge put in for two weeks’ vacation, so no one has thought to call here yet.  Once I had cleaned up a bit, I took a few days […]

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The way we are

If I tried to dream you out of whole cloth, what a disservice it would be. We speak in print, with proper letters and cadence. There’s ample time to consider a question or a statement, or to bid a goodnight without rudeness. I apply and project my idea of you, as a sculptor might, from […]

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Smug as a bug

They haven’t turned up the heat yet, or held my feet to the fire. So, still I stay smugly detached from nervous bristlings meant to alarm. And time I have to consider the Shaman who walks, entranced in faith, on beds of glowing coals.

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