Isis: elegy to my cat who's still with me or, my lesbian lover II. Like autumn bears the brunt of winter yet to come -- ambritch, scratch those strictures! sharpen, shorten your claws! on the loose pine of my first dining room mostly banished to my office...
My keyboard doesn't seem to be working properly. For someone like me, who types all the time, that ain't a good thing. It's downright annoying, actually. When I get on a roll, I tend to bash it really hard and quick. That almost sounds like a euphemism, b...
I thought I would share this piece, travels and travails in search of the Cleveland Amtrak station, written in response to an invitation from an advocacy group to review the station from the perspective of those with disabilities. Although unsuccessful in...
Oh dear! I've caught the writing bug. It seems a bad disease. But, it doesn't make me cough and it doesn't make me sneeze! I do not have a fever; it seems there's no injection . My throat it isn't sore; there isn't an infection. I didn't catch it from f...
I see beauty everywhere in old faces grown gentle or embittered with storied lines around the mouth deepset eyes look out on the bones of the earth basalt dozing titans apt to awaken momentarily to quake leaves from tresses tangled in turning over I hear...
the soil is turned under and over the cycling suns to moons fed with loving refuse composted experience the careful rows weeded of unnecessary baggage weathered accomplices encouraging, well-timed grants of moisture and the precise moment of commitment se...
Coach B is the Quiet Coach. It is a good place to think, to reflect and from which to draw inspiration. It is a silent movie and my mind writes the title cards. I always travel in Coach B, though it is always at the far end of the platform. For four and a...
Once upon a time lived a girl, A beautiful soul with talent.One felt she was a perfect pearl,That writing was her true outlet. She studied artists she could findIn the finest books in the land. She dreamed of expressing her mindWith the truest thoughts at...
You will not pour ice on my mic Just because my lesson burns You’re not allowed to shame me‘cause your mind's too closed to learn I refuse to change my words around Or remove a single phrase‘cause my message is a mirror That reflects your naked face Race,...
in response to 3 comments for Alhambra by the same author, excerpted below: " . . . cooled the hot Andalucian sun and carried it off into arched spaces shaded like the olive trees we would eat paella . . . ""My angel is merciless to dream in perfect whisp...
in response to the following lovely comment left for languid (mornin', Sweeting):"my fingers slid down the natural gradientstretching the skin in all the more sensitivefelt as a soft moan might pad on a sheetintent on some scheme or huntfor the indistinct...
Purple nails, they clack along the keyboard.Typing this tripe, listening to Metallica,Chatty chat, I go. My replies may be slow,You know? Running out of rhymes, so I’m not gonna.I’ll just type stuff, no idea of what’s coming,Quick change that loathsome tr...
She lay across the naked twin mattress That was haphazardly placed on the floor Propping up her notebook on her bare, bony knees Scribbling random words; trying to make them say moreWords and the wonders she could create with them Had always been her true...
