You left your mark like a prehistoric cave drawing. Unseen, undiscovered, permanent. A message understood only by the one who created it. You created a masterpiece. Beaten, bruised, bleeding, inanimate. To you. Leaving nothing to remember you by but a stain, faded, never gone. Violence the medium that stenciled you onto me so cruelly. Memories […]
Why, we have come almost to looking upon real life as an effort, almost as hard work, and we are all privately agreed that it is better in books. And why do we fuss and fume sometimes? Why are we perverse and ask for something else? We don’t know what ourselves. It would be the
Dostoevsky on Avoiding Life Read More »
The further I got into life, the worse my life became and the more I needed to write about it. The more I expressed my feelings through written words, the less I wanted to give into urges of self-pity. Writing didn’t destroy all the bad thoughts that tormented me, but it allowed me to think
Make me cool and silent as the black cat that glides through the night beyond my open window. Pour down on my satiny skin a moon plump with Easter’s ancient promise, cascading like a string of pearls her numinous vernal generations. Settle on to my limber restless shadow just enough knowing to shake off the
each of us chooses which stars to let shine in the black of our night and we place them, as fragments of glass in a frame, to color the horizon of another soul. that soul does the same, grabbing choice pieces to exchange around solar dust, sparkling, and our own deep light. they burn in
since we are made of star stuff Read More »
Quite a few years ago, when I first read Stephen King’s excellent book On Writing, I thought about how cool it would be to have as many rejection slips as King, the ones he talks about collecting in a desk drawer. Submit a story, get a refusal, into the drawer it goes, out with another submission.
Holding Out for Acceptance: Submission, Rejection, Submission, Repetition Read More »