Garbed in pastels and duns I went, though there were whims of crimson, and blue ebullience. And I was always just around the corner, safe in softness, empty of the passings by. On a day, I thought to write lines with hooks and sinkers. A thing to underlie, a thing to fill this tired camouflage.
Nights at the round table!Spouts of hot teasloshed into cups of tiny china.Cards and clinking glasses,glinting toothy smiles!One nods offafter too many Jameson’s.Piggyback up the stairs,unfold him into bed, hah!Open a window, will you?What, tired already?It’s only two!
"Are you an anxious person?", the therapist said. Our man then recalled the thoughts and emotions that preceded his blackout at the wheel on that wintry night not so long ago. He had awakened, after what seemed only a few seconds, with his car in the ditch, a fat lip, and a bloody nose. Otherwise,... Continue Reading →
Almost a year from the day he saw his "tiny dancer", he still struggles to bury the image, and sees this as a strange and fascinating illness of the soul. Am I weak? Evil? Insane, to let this affect me thus? Has my life been so devoid of joy that I see, every day, the... Continue Reading →
In a small, crowded, noisy bar, on a winter's night, he's surrounded by family and friends. There's a dislike for the setting: Having to shout to be heard at your own table, the inevitable loud or belligerent drunks, the tiny bathroom always occupied. He stays anyway, because the band is partly family too. Gradually, unknowingly,... Continue Reading →