InterjectionBy Eric Stephenson / August 16, 2021 Cold as a dry cube of ice sticking to my tongue, your eyes freeze me in suspended animation, when all I wanted was a pretty lie, not the naked truth. Spread the love
A Bartender’s Guide Kenny rang the bell and shouted, “Last call! Drink ’em up! You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here!” It had been… Read More »
Get the Message A poem is an equation written on the wind, riding on memory from one seer to the next, ancient as the spoken word. I can… Read More »
The Amitabha Stupa My visit to the Amitabha Stupa in Sedona several years turned out to be one of those epiphanies that shift the direction of one’s life.… Read More »
