I’ve not come from nowhere to be nothing. — The hangover that made you late for the train contained within its sickness a new distaste for losing yourself in public scenes. Vomitus small talk and corsets of self-annihilation; a wildness drained by one poorly mixed cocktail after another. You woke up disgusted, puking, rotten and foul-mouthed so you could see beyond…

Something generous and wholly undemanding 🌳 — At first it was enough To know the tree was there That something generous and Wholly undemanding had appeared An opening for wonderment In a beleaguered space It was enough by itself — adding More too soon would have Tipped it in the wrong direction Trust had to bloom in its…

A poem of surrender — And so the dark matter of my soul forms a tear, a slit so slippery it glides a path for hidden fears to sidle down to self-dismissal. From narrowed marrows of neglected time, it rips and gapes and gasps, widens lurking wise-ass-ness to force a burgeoning crevasse, an opening so rank and hungry, it on itself…

“This is all I asked of night. It was not enough.” — All I asked the night was keep me safe. Keep me safe in my illusions snug in my delusions with a blanket of soft reality, keep me warm and tight. This is all I asked of night. It was not enough. …

We are each the primary audience for the highest expression of what we love most — “I make my movies for audiences, because I am an audience, first and foremost.” — Tom Cruise, Cannes 2022 Why do filmmakers make movies? Why do Chefs open restaurants? Why do Teachers teach? Why does a passionate creator go to great lengths to “put it out there?” …

A night in Monument Valley — Gravity’s ubiquitous yet weak — a stalk of wheat bends only to please the breeze, not the steady mass of a beggar craving bread, nor will the earth sway sweet grains to fall when flocking doves add beaks and wings to the equation. …

GiaB writing prompt #2–12: the senses — Thick 3AM darkness cloaks the neighborhood, streetlamp glow’s muted, insufficient. Scorpio shuts the engine off, coasts in from the cross-streets, releasing heat without generating sound. Lights are on inside the house. Dennis practically rolls off the bike into the concrete floor of the garage, shakes out his legs to un-wedge…

The dream began awake, three decades later on a mud-dug road near Abiquiu — Because each wrong answer kills us fast I am shifting to be a flowing end of sentence Crafting sentience beyond my years to answer right — Which will kindly kill us slow, the way Nature scripts it when death splits after decades missing The point of who we started out to be together…