Just me, Samuel Smith Taddy Porter, a slice of pecan pie, a Hermes typewriter and some good tunes. Keeping warm, cozy, and creative tonight. Another sunshadow another flash of light. Documentation of the days. Commas. The loss of articles. Patience, innocence, meekness now. These things have floated off into a deep canyon. Buried deep deepdown like a time capsule. A fossil. It's a far place from where I once was. I come back to where I began, things uncover themselves. The manner in which I surrendered all young hope is the same as rediscovering my age-old integrity. Looking closely at things is someting that has to be learned. Being vague is somthing that cannot be denied. Secret passages. Tonight I salute solidarity. I hold the secrets with a smile. My secrets are honest, pure honey. Privacy is the joyous nectar I value and seldom share with others in times of celebration and connection. Love stories are written everyday. Even if you are alone. I am.

industry & hope

You have to be your own best friend, reliable, honest, patient, with unconditional love and wonder. Staying within, going without. All of my best friends are far from where I am, so I make late night journeys through the winter wonderland, shelties along the way. I follow my fate, I find my way. A window of curious opportunity, a stairwell of strange embrace, of senseless familiarity. The fingerless flow of an evening, the asking eyes and spilling secrets, oh the fun! The less I need the more I receive. The sensitive sweetness of an enthusiatic few who have changed my view, scratched a loving thumbnail over my heart and behind my ear. This spontaneous shifting helps dissipate my troubles and eases the creases of my doubt. You have to trust your instinct, wandering, listening.

fly fly now

Oh boy, I feel like lonely bird today with a pathetic whistle, trying to muster up enough strength to sing my sad sleepy song. I miss friends that are not my own, I go about my nest like it is not home. posted feathers on one's skin, in one's hair, tickling another's skin. The one that I let go, free in the wind, the one I truly miss.

The Brick Throat

The quietness has chilled my blood. I imagine being eaten, cut with fork and knife. Slick skin and dry bones, tender and sweet. For each day you are absent I will fold my hands together and breathe slowly, peacefully, softly. Arousing my senses and nonsenses, making noise to fill the space that you have left open for me wander about in. Now I find I truly understand Edna's words.

wonohwonohnine

counting lights while stars shoot by

waiting for the darkness of solitude to arrive