Has it been twenty years?It doesn't seem that long.Since we got tattoos in Blackpooland danced to Rosie Gaines songs. Rollercoasters, bumper cars,it's all a little hazy.Do you look back as I do,and think our teenage years were crazy? Nights at Cafe de Paris,meals at Pizza Pomodoro.Elvis singing his heart out,to my shaking head and eye roll. Taxi cabs for takeout,too much wine to drive.Watching Desperado,tears of laughter...

I would love to kiss your lips when they're moist with wine and painted red with desire. Gaze into your eyes where your love smolders glowing with passions fire. Feel your bodies warm alabaster flesh burn against mine in a romantic embrace imaging strands of your hair tangled and enmeshed veiling desperate kisses all over my face. Not for me the cold calm kiss of a virgin's uninspired love nor a Saints chaste bliss pure a...

Terrified of everything After what you did to me Terrified of everything It's like I ceased to be Terrified of everything Panic all the time Terrified of everything So I drink too much wine Terrified of everything I just confided in a friend Terrified of everything What you did can never mend Terrified of everything It really was not easy Terrified of everything Now I'm feeling queasy Terrified of everything Will I ever r...

WARNING: Very coarse language used in two places in the dialog. Be warned. With the holidays approaching I recalled this memory and wanted to share it.So here I am headed to a Christmas party at the house of one of the school bus drivers. Yes, I drove a school bus for one school year, and it wasn't all that bad. The high school students were great, it was the elementary school kids that were the worst, but I am getting of...

At age five, I had already experienced the loss of a parent. My biological father died of lung cancer. At age six, I had already experienced alcoholism, though not personally. My mom was glued to her wine. That was how I found her one day, walking into the house. I had just gotten home from school and she was already drunk off her ass."Mommy? Mommy, I know you miss Daddy... but I miss you..." She was passed out on the flo...

Listening to the rain hitting the tin roof As the aroma of sweet smelling candles fills the air Slowly twirling my hair up onto the top of my head clipping it there Then undoing the zip and removing my dress. Stepping into the bubble bath feeling the warm water Easing the pains, in my aching muscles. Sinking deeper as my fingers, Brush the bubbles over my skin.Smiling to myself as I hear the key in the door Then the door...

What is the point of a second hand hat? That, I fear, is a misnomer. Should it not be second head? After all, one wears a hat on the head, so that terminology seems bonkers, to me, at least. Shoes are another thing. They should be third and fourth foot. Gloves should be second and fourth hand. Or am I just being overly obtuse?It boggles the mind, all those weird misnomers. It actually feels like the word “misnomer” is a m...

The last van load was finally delivered to Rufus’ flat.“Wow, it’s finally official,” Cynthia sighed.“Not yet,” Rufus smiled.“Huh?” Cynthia was confused.“Here you go!” Rufus fished a key out of his pocket and gave it to Cynthia, “now it’s official! Now, let’s get the last of this unpacked,” he grinned.“I know something else we could do that would be just as tiring,” Cynthia winked.“Okay! You’re naughty!”Rufus paid his frie...

(with apologies to 'Papa' Hemingway)In a clean, well-lighted place out of the rain, the man and woman drank wine. The wine was good. They ate the testicles of a young bull that had bravely faced death in the afternoon. Both were good.Back in their room, he went to her breasts. Her breasts were there, and good."You were good," she said."De nada," he said, and left. It had been good.They met no more.Each died alone--in the...

They say that wine is best when it has aged, but who are they to say that? What do they know, these experts, about age? What about the grapes, the vines, the sun, the soil, the misty mornings, the eyes that watched the ripening, the fingers that plucked and with their art created what they poured into each bottle as if it were a poem? Perhaps it was the age of the wine maker, who after many years could close his eyes and...