Prose

A fine gold thread appeared in my window, dangling from an old piece of plaster outside. It waved beautifully and wistfully, teasing of brighter futures and glittering hope.   I walked towards to hold it and found it was nothing more than a wayward beam of light; a sliver caught between sunset and clouds, dancing with wind.   The illusion is apt, I thought. Fitting, even.  The light entwined itself over my hands, and I allowed myself to feel gilded and enriched.  Movies are

You mock me with shadow puppets cast against dark stone.

Warm, misty mornings; tendrils of mystery and beauty, remind me that, like the disolving wisps, we are nothing more than a dew drop on a morning leaf -
tenuous in our grip and forever fleeting.

This is for you. Who cared enough to ask. who thinks to visit, who simply says hello.

The Hollow Vale; a kingdom of ornate towers and perfumed wind, now gnawed to ruin by time and memory. The arches had collapsed. The wells whispered nothing from their empty depth

I found an old jewellery box. Ornate in design, splintered in parts, with dust etched into the very soul of it. The trinkets inside...

Internal countdown on, fueled by rage, inequities, years of hoping and wishing; give me strength, give me resolve. I had beautiful...

Heckled and tired, taking swings with crooked bats. "Yo battah yo battah yo battah, suwinnng battah!" This mantra chiming through my...

An aging master performs meloncoly chords, painting me a summer forest, just before sunset. Light beams bring in the underlying melodies....

While you beg for answers, I hide the script. dance with me Rain on fevered skin; the trees will not be offended by your brute forces and my cries of mercy. Memories are bruises left by lust and fire. There is something old there, something undone, unravelled. These forces leave nothing to the imagination. I want your commandments dealt with precision. I crave these intimate moments, mutual understandings, cared for and used with gratitude. Your mirror shines with brilliance

How is it, that while I see the scars of all your doppelgangers on my face, my body, my arms; I am blind to your ability to add to these...

The rain was heavy this morning. The scent of Spring is not yet here, and it felt as though the water held gifts the ground would still...

You are the most sublime piece of music. Contained in notes of lust and melodies made of smoke and fiction. I remember you quoting Bukowski, comparing lives, I think, wishing to be defined by great moments of pain and long lost loves; with your writing always sitting sharp on the precipice of Burroughs' needle. I left before you died, and in grieving I painted you brighter than you had a right to be. I give this memory over to the shadows that consume these histories. Your p

All the pens, all the paper, and all the string in the world; and I willingly refuse to connect the dots. Leave me some silly putty, or...

Mugs hang chaoticly and in no discernable order upon decorative hooks. Ceramic decor and pithy sayings, along side metal pots and mixing...

My love for him is not held in a card, or chocolate candy. It is a tapestry, woven through years; a story told with gold and silver...

Mr. Self Pity came calling today, well really it snuck up behind me and gave me little choice but to see him. I wish I wish I wish.... I...

An over wound clock tells no time. It can't even speak to promises or hope. It is only a historian.

An empty husk holds no words. I must remind myself, each time I say Yes, that it is No, to my own cup. Your own divinity reminds me that...

I am superfluous in every way. When I talk it is in overtones; dramatic emotions, images, messy paint and ideas that may not connect. When I write, it can be flowery, with confusing metaphors that seem far too personal.   I am a contrarian. When you want me to settle into a pattern I fly into the air. When you want me to flow like the river, I become fixed, as a boulder in the stream.   I like life to be pronounced, curved, stylized.  I like the punctuation to stand up and ma