And I will keep going down until my body doesn't ache
Lexical regrets
Blur it out and forget
that I was ever stirred
by this


twin peaks & mountainsides

I could synthesize; or abandon and live on.


spring please come slow, never go

watch the sun rise 
(peach-apricot blueberry with whipped cream cloud spring pie sky)
watch the night fall
(planets--or stars and street lamps)
watch the divine move slow over

spring glow



Your weathered face has me drying, prying at my eyes. I see your love, I see your life gone by. 

"Bellow had already conceived of a novel about a duplicitous marriage. (Perhaps on some level he knew?) But now Bellow had his material in all its incredible salaciousness, and he did not hesitate to use his life (nor the lives of others) in his fiction."  

I once wrote a story, 7,000 words strong, about a girl named Flora and her failed relationship. The inevitable, the doomed. Perhaps on some level, I knew too.



"Honey just allow me one more chance."

Fleurs. Flowers. Of/ from the sun. Happy about the alloted douse of water (glass is always half full for them).

Happy to live there. Happy to die there. Or are they really?

Why don't you ask them to tell you a story?


A-Gonna Fall.

"I met one man who was wounded in love."


unfinished work.

The novel, and an abrupt or unfinished conversation.

Irritatingly out of the way but in the way of everything.

"In no matter what circumstances, if the imagination is stopped from pouring itself out we have a void."

Said the wise Simone Weil. And what do I respond?
Empty, uncharted pages.
Elegantly absent relationships.