At East Village
I suddenly realize that I can’t remember the names of maybe half, of maybe a third of the women I’ve been with. This is a problem.
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- 667 reads
At Old Capitol Books
Before we stopped talking, she quoted Hunter S. Thompson in an email. Plenty of people express mild thunderclap when it is revealed that I’ve never read Thomspon. So did she.
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- 607 reads
At Griffin Plaza
The problem being her shoes. I don’t get them. She is wearing a gray t-shirt that probably once belonged to someone else, its screen printed ink faded and flaking and missing, in spots.
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- 493 reads
An inspiration
Standing. Standing still. The wind in my face. A chill down my spine. Watching. Waiting. Waiting for that moment. The sun going down. A beautiful sky.
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- 544 reads
a poem for the torn cat's asking
Church-jackals, church-mice, pious pillars, choir-urchins, and other sundry minions all all still chafing at the chapel (as if caught in some medieval time warp;)
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- 447 reads
I'm not a horse!
People think that I'm a horse because of my ugly horse face. When I go to the track, everybody thinks that I'm there to race. I look so much like a horse that people put a feed bag on my head.
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- 442 reads
The Long Bustard Narrow Gauge Railway, Part2.
Continued... Chapter Four. Up the River Without a Paddle.
Dwellers of the New World Chapter Ten ( Pt 2 ) Unexpected Callers
The two shadowy figures slid down the wall to a sitting position just below the window.
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- 2407 reads
Stars (again...)
The trophies of past glories Evidence of the biggest break in of all Something impossible coming into focus Order in the court of night A bright alphabet of light
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- 377 reads