from the inside out.
a nameless ache with
out a face. a body-less
voice speaking with
out context. minutes
drip like wax, hot again
st your skin. will this nite
rest your soul or burn
the cordwood into ash?
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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
-
▼
2010
(584)
-
▼
April
(47)
- Prove Me Wrong, You Can't
- Breaking Glass Back Into Form
- Wails
- Dog Days
- MmAaDdNnEeSsSs
- Ritual
- Choker
- My Best Friend The Stranger
- Good Mourning
- Of Bossa & King Louie
- People
- Obfuscate
- Blurry Eyed Expectation
- Guilty As Charged
- For You.
- Not Found
- A Place
- Wails, Whales, Wales & Wailes.
- Turning Sand Into Glass
- Ink & Pen
- Buscando
- Seen
- Harrow
- Composer
- 135th & Prairie
- Meditation On This World
- Violets
- Phaedrus
- BritLit-ism
- Midnight and the Hours Beyond
- Past Haunts
- Spirits
- Forest Fire
- Zen
- Substance
- Consummate Consumption
- Brakes
- Seasons
- Forgetter
- Sera Un Monte de Oro (Pictures, Distance & Proximity)
- Dreams
- Koan?
- Breaking Stones
- Pretty Pretty
- Good Friday At Park Pantry
- And
- Thoughts From Work
-
▼
April
(47)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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