As life moves toward dusk, only magic separates man from God. — A fact of life is this: We are no more than a speck of dust in the eons of time. Yet, still, we write our hearts onto pages that will disintegrate like soap. Some people come into the world, and their life remains long after they are gone. Mine will…

A man who wants to be eleven years old again on every page. Love him or hate him, he’s a man trying to be loved. His story is so strong, the writer hopes the reader knows it and can learn from it, and one day forgive him. — At best, I have a wandering heart, at worst, broken, but only in a literary sense. I continue to live with a degree of belief I can write well enough to engage a reader’s interest; it’s called narcissism and is an insanity yet to be cured. (Consider the many times…

America is sliding toward autocracy. — Mrs. Braebrooke, our classroom teacher, rolled down a map of the world from its anchorage on the ceiling. The width of the map stretched almost across the room. She held a long thin cane in her hand, similar to one dad might tie up tomatoes, and pointed to a large…

There’s not much to know. I’ve been fortunate. Now I write. — I started life in an orphanage. Actually, not strictly true, I started life being hidden beneath a shrub on a roundabout in Gants Hill, Essex. I was found by a young couple leaving the Odeon cinema (since demolished) having spent their evening watching a Spencer Tracy movie, Edward, My Son. …

I’m neither therapist, life coach, healer, or vicar! I’m just pissed off with so much bad stuff in the world. Honestly, I’ve fucking had enough. — We cannot survive without support from other human beings, it is impossible to live with just ourselves. It is not our nature to be alone. We cannot think, feel, act or speak without affecting others. …

Lori is my child muse. When life is complicated, I bring Lori to me for her innocence and her simplistic views on the world and the creativity she brings to my work. — It was a mistake. I did it thoughtfully, but still, it was a mistake. Missouri is not a state with which I can identify. …

How was I going to live with the pretense of not having cancer? — He rides in with the wind, his mount sweating, black, and breathing hard, an outlaw with killing on his mind. He rides with relaxed shoulders, wearing a worn leather coat past his knees, hat tipped over his eyes. Where this outlaw goes, cold winds blow. People say there’s a look…

Previously published in original P.S. I Love You The shore is cold and empty As I watch the setting sun Learned every dirty trick While I was on the run I ran away to Paris To Montmatre Sacré-Cœur Met Mr. Leonard Leconte A poet over there I thought that I…

Fuck her, yelling at me. This is a warning, okay, you come at me yelling that I cut you off at the last junction, I’m gonna blow your fucking head off! I’m going to assume you are packing heat, okay, and I ain’t gonna wait to find out. Did I…