In the tan armchair beneath the bright front window, I ask: “And then?” “And then?” “And then?”
Not remarkable. No big revelation. No reason, really, to wait for the other shoe.
If he had lived a fabulously long life, my grandfather would have turned 95 fifteen days later.
Your author trains his eyes on memories of unslept nights.
This energy: contemplation, concentration, creation. Yesterday, your tender touch. Today, these words which reach out like fingertips and offer another…
"Much of my childhood was spent interpreting the art on the walls of our home. So to look at it now with him, to ask him what they mean to him, is…
Perhaps there was comfort in the constriction, a perverse safety in the pressure. Perhaps the door served as a weighted blanket – protection from…
Guys do stupid things. A lot of energy in young guys. A lot of stupidity. And then there were some regular guys like me.
Somewhere, a dog barks. Another responds. Chickens, twenty yards to the right, shake and pluck and cluck in their open pen. Or maybe I’ve just added…
"If you’ve got a nice bunch of mess halls and horse stables with lots of nice, juicy fleas, why not fucking make use of them, right?"
My beloved, horrendous asthma—granting me access to him, to his attention, to his tenderness, his softest love.
Your author swings from the branches, and wonders when and if (and how) he might land.