spread across
the concrete
in abstract
patterns by
the invisible
hand tousling
your hair.
It can never
make up its
mind, taking
the leaves
to wherever it
pleases.
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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)
-
▼
July
(47)
- Trailing
- My Children
- the hours as they pass by...
- Voyeurs
- want
- 4 Letters
- Well, do you?
- Every Breathe Is Dying
- Liferaft
- Lengths
- Old Friends
- A Present Tense.
- Stranger
- FUCK FATE
- Dreaming Of You
- City Nights
- Hot Nights
- Scales
- Moon God
- A Modern Affliction
- Living Spaces
- Interrelated
- 888
- Quicksand
- We Are The Madmen
- Forever Changes
- Hear Emily Play
- The Departed Guest
- The Preservation of Language
- Keeping The Promise
- Spirits Among Us
- Presence
- Cycles & Seasons
- Painter
- Believer
- Wrath
- Hindsight (one might suppose)
- Independent Contractor
- Mark Twain
- Statue Of A Porcelain Goddess.
- American Holiday
- Of Cats & Bears
- The Patient
- the fate of men
- Dead Dog Blues
- The Choices We Make
- Certain Things
-
▼
July
(47)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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