Kitaro, The Dead, and Queequeg Walk Into a Bar
Peak moments. Lucid moments. Insight. Understanding. Clarity. Enlightened moments. What fun.
Math and Aftermath
Who of them will come to be? How many of them are you and me?
the view (from here)
screaming motorcycles encircle my house triggering a fear of the dangers of daring to be young again on top of that all the birds a round here are refusing to co operate i remember leaping over the handle bars and painting the street with several inches of my fore head
The Boy Who Stayed: A Lifetime of Healing
The idea that all of us adults have an inner child is silly. Which is the point.
It's All One Story
I am not a disciplined writer. I don't even like to call myself a writer. I don't get writer's block. I get writer's fright. I've said this before. Why does writing frighten me? Because when writing, I can't lie. I can't hide.
i bargained for salvation
i used to by opium from a guy who wore renfaire clothing and always made me listen to him sing 'shelter from the storm' i just cut ties with a grifter poet who'd been grooming me for a few months, i don't know what
all i have are these words
Open the Cage Door
I'm on a short bridge, standing on a milk crate for a better view. A tribe of gorillas inhabits the creek-side below. The creek is known as Blood River, but nobody knows why. There is a beat up old suitcase somewhere near... well, somewhere, anyway. There is
the garden snake
I. the two boys the garden snake the sun dried wood the long stretch the measure II. I remember on my back my skin warmth above and below fading into suchness the sun III. the one boy the opened jack knife the silver blade (the cutting the blood) the dying
The Life of Jesus as a Religious Paranoic
glorious baklava, ex libras, hep hey, ad infinitum
shoes for sale
Write a story in six words...
or was it daisies?
senryu
wail mary
from the sacrilege series