I’m growing fat and lazy, less ambitious. Hungry only for scraps.
The glorious comfort of a star within Orion’s Belt being the home of Jesus does not comfort me. Lying to grandpa on his deathbed was a kindness, a little white lie. I do not know if there is or is not a heaven.
The tall boy’s are sweating. The Black & Mild is sweet. Tears don’t come but I can feel them coming like coyotes trekking through the desert, chasing a mirage, feeling the ache of relief but never reaching it.
After climbing back to the sand, you lay down, exhausted. The tide begins lapping at your feet, your legs, your thighs, your hands and you remember.
At dusk, the end glows like ancient amber lodged in a fossilized tree. It’s color dimming and brightening with each inhale or gust of wind.
Like those bottles and cans waiting to be tossed, I too shiver at the thought of needing more. A deep valley, is my body, slowly filling with the trickle of some Joshua tree property hose.
I grew up in the land where 14-year-olds built houses in foreign countries. Where 15-year-olds drove Mercedes-Benz and 16-year-olds started thinking about their parent’s colleges.
It’s not a question of purpose. To treat purpose like some treasure to be found with or without a map is to take away ones own intrinsic value. I believe, for me, it is a matter of finding what is next. What will be. What may be, if I simply try.
God’s coming she’s just tying her shoe laces and once she gets her kicks on she’s gonna kick some ass. At least that’s what grandpa told me. He assured me, on multiple occasions that every mother fucker would get their comeuppance. Not exactly in those words but something like that.
I think therefore I am tortured.
The realities of having a rollercoaster in the house would be a nightmare; all the maintenance, security, city permits (of which there would be a plethora for safety, zoning, expansion, etc.) not to mention that riding the same ride would get old.
Do I belong here for my ideas? Or will I always be a female body with ideas, doomed never to be separated from my anatomy?
Kramer’s character, as I heard Michael Richards describe him, isn’t dumb or crazy, he’s actually one level above everyone. Unconcerned with what others think, the world is his playground.
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