Anon
Holes in the glass
the size of golf balls
let the wind stream in.
a ukulele plays quietly,
a soft voice
questions love.
the city
in the throes
of the day
bustles by,
forgetting that
I am here.
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It's always getting late.
When I am not writing this is what I do.
"In the present we are always in memory." - Trish Keenan
It's always getting late.
Introduction
This blog is a virtual notebook of writing that I maintain as often as I can. Poems, stray lines, random observations, all co-exist here. Revisions occur as needed/deemed fit.
See/Hear
A Chronological Archive of Joy and Heartache most often referred to as LIFE
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2009
(385)
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October
(55)
- Another
- tossed off cast off off off
- News?
- dust fragments
- Recent Technology
- Density
- Ditch
- It Was Because
- Childhood Memories
- Waking On A Sunday, Your Face Haunting
- Empty The Bottle Into Yourself
- Internal Wrangling
- Korea Town
- Slivers Of Words Written On Scrap Pieces Of Paper
- Disjointed
- The City (Draft 2)
- Another Short
- Something To Note
- Let The Past Be The Past
- For My Beautiful Dancer
- For Mother
- GOOODBYEGOODBYEGOODBYEGOODBYEGOODBYEGOODBYE
- The Gardener
- Wine Dreams Of Death
- Throwing Dirt, Smearing Words
- Unpublished Writing
- An End On This Harvest Moon
- How long do we mourn?
- New Sights In Familiar Places
- The Heart Is A Broken Metronome
- State Of The Union
- ___
- Lluvia De Oro
- The City (Draft 1)
- Surely.
- A Needed Question Searching For A Needed Answer.
- The Melody At Night, With You.
- thrown away
- Fragmented Architecture
- Broadcast
- Don't Overlook This
- Another Morning In The City
- Remember?
- At The End Of The Day
- Tasks
- Ghosts
- Empty It
- Cheap Wine In Hard Times
- s p a c e s p a c e s p a c e s p a c e s p a c e
- On this harvest moon
- Bits & Pieces
- Anonymous
- An End Of Another Type
- a disappearing act
- Sec
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▼
October
(55)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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