There ought to be a carnival, a sky full of colored balloons drifting on the wind with tags on them saying… goodbye…goodbye…crossing the Golden Gate and on around the world on the trade winds of friendship.
I wish I had moved more slowly, taken more time to arrive at where…
It’s true, thanks to the colorist, the first touch of winter’s grey has been disguised, and it’s true, too, lines are forming about the corners of her eyes, but she is a woman more beautiful than any words of love can describe.
A body no longer adorned or shaped by Givenchy…
My life began beneath a shrub on a roundabout in Gants Hill, Essex, U.K. (No, I’m not Moses!) I was found by a young couple leaving the Odeon cinema having spent their evening watching a Spencer Tracy movie, Edward, My Son.
With no parents claiming me, I was put up…
In short, my writing experience
Writing, for me, is not the culmination of a boy’s lifelong dream. My first attempt at writing a book began in 2002 and took five years to write. That is persistence. It was rejected by everyone who got to read it. The publisher doesn’t exist…
Fully into autumn, I feel the sun’s last warmth soothing my temples and hear the deer rustling through leaves on the forest floor.
“Mr. Harry…help me, will you? I don’t know how to get in.”
Of course, she doesn’t; the last time Lori visited me, I lived in Mendocino, on…
Tell me, did you ever weep so hard that snot runs from your nose, mixing with tears before it seeped past your lips? Did your heart ever hurt so sharply that you knew with every beat it grows within a spindly thicket?
Did you ever want to leave a field…
It’s for my own sanity, beer and whiskey
But no more the lassies, once a might frisky
I can’t find my shoes, my pants are somewhere
And where is my shirt, and just look at my hair
There’s no fucking ocean, no sand to walk on
And what of my bed…
Havana’s beauty is marvelous in its sadness. The dusky cream faces of children’s smiles dipped into moons, and orgies of women crying on street corners, while men, rolling cigars between fingers, gamble away their money in crowded markets with expensive produce: ripe plantain, sweet potatoes, malanga, guava, papaya, the fruits…
The clocks were changed one hour backward, an hour hidden until spring; an hour in which anyone can hide their deepest secrets.
It is an hour of time that went somewhere, an hour where no one lives, no echoes heard, no wind moves the tree limbs, no night, no day…
I met my first QAnon supporter last night. He had returned from Texas and was having a drink at a bar in Lambert International. I was waiting for my flight to Denver. …
