Lovers
Who is this person? The one in my mind, Awake or asleep, So gentle, so warm, The one who touches me Completely, For the first time. The mind falls silent, Bowing to heart’s Whispered reply.
Writings
Blamed
Your voice is too friendly,Your smile too inviting,Your laugh too welcoming.Don’t speak.You’re giving these people the wrong idea.Be silent. White powder spread across the table,glass bottles scattered on the floor;the loud men filling the roomgrow more menacing with each snort of cocaine.Such peace for me in his chaotic lifewhen he doesn’t notice me.He reminds me,“Lock
Dave Barry, Novelist: The M’cola Perspective
“… the pinnacle of hyenic humor, was the hyena, the classic hyena, that hit too far back while running, would circle madly, snapping and tearing at himself, until he pulled his own intestines out, and then stood there, jerking them out and eating them with relish. “‘Fisi,’ M’Cola would say and shake his head in
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Robert B. Parker’s Spenser: How to Be a Good Man
Like Bat Masterson, Robert Parker died at his typewriter, a perfect point of departure for a writer whose every word conveyed the enjoyment felt by a born story-teller, and the pleasure Parker took in the company of his many characters, a pleasure the reader shares. Even if Parker had not been a brilliant, innovative story-teller,
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A Bunch of Felonies
You know, that’s what my sockeyetrist told me. “Catherine,” he said, “you’ve got a person in you, another person besides you, and that person is all the time telling you, ‘Catherine, you’re no good, Catherine, you can’t do thus and that.’ And you are trying to become yourself, but that
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Cleveland
White antlers of the night exacerbate my soul. There were gerbils at angles unheard of, perpendicular to themselves. These gerbils: my little sister in her prom dress more expensive than mine. This was in Cleveland. And so on. And so on. This is the kind of thing they mostly print these days, desperate attempts to