journal poem
5.22.96 framed by the shirt she cannot kiss back his bad groping taste between them like a bloom of ocean algae with snarling lips his cheeks roar up and down red nails in a fist awkwardly stiff his hands hang on to her shoulders
Adventures in Good Clean Living
My friend and saviour Stacey has a new blogh, about homesteading with her friend Scott in in remote regions of the north. It is called Cooter Hollow. I am envious of their venture, though I know I could never endure the mud, the smoke, the hauling of water through snow and ice. But I have [...]
Endangered Species, 11.3
11.3 Lydia, out of nowhere, called to say she was in Chicago and would be arriving late the next night or early the morning after. She still had her key. We looked at her bed. It was the same bedding that had been there when she left. With no real enthusiasm we stripped it, flipped [...]
