and growing in clusters,
your green hue
draws my fingers in.
your sweet taste
dripping from my lips.
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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)
-
▼
September
(42)
- The Woman At The Jazz CLub
- Sunrise
- Midnight Kiss
- small needs
- Life Always Kills The Beautiful (for JH)
- Sins of the Saints
- Second Sight
- Picking Up The Mail
- For Lady Madonna
- Darker Days
- On Language:
- Sidewalk Story
- who/m?
- Tell Me If You Do
- Late Night Overtures
- Fever Dream
- Bouquet
- Endless Kiss
- Feral
- strange people in dark places
- A Rose For Dali
- Consultation
- Images Of A Morning Conversation
- I Know What I Am Doing
- Blank
- "...everything is fine."
- Fresh Cement
- Lobster
- A Comment On TIme
- moth
- Paradise
- Verano Sin Fin
- Ourselves
- Honesty and it's alternatives
- Draining The Spirits
- Late Night Serenade For Sharon
- Reasons to Cry
- Everything Summarized
- Drip and Drop
- Humbling
- Pressure Release Valve
- Guesswork
-
▼
September
(42)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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