Sometime in August


Writing by hand by the glow of a monitor like it’s Christmas morning—sitting in darkness, shoulders hunched and leaning forward, comforted by the effort to draw heat from a feeble, single light source.

Sweetly, softly stoned, my monitor is my holiday now. That and the music, a beautiful distraction from lumps in throats and hearts in pieces.

One song, one song on rotation, the obsessive’s quest for healing. Continue reading “Sometime in August”

You Can’t Take Me With You When You Go

Earth or fire. The result of time or happenstance.

It does not matter how we die. Or how we’re disposed of.

Not the particulars, anyway.


Natural, unnatural, good, bad, painful, fair, unjust, horrible. No, it does not matter at all.

Our hearts scream out differently; my heart doth protest, and hard. And it protests daily. Continue reading “You Can’t Take Me With You When You Go”

Of Necks, Newspapers, and Death

I’ve had enough of good-byes—I’m switching to see ya laters.

The older I get the more appealing this leave-taking becomes. There are fine lines bracketing my smile, and my hands and throat are somehow growing old without me. Especially my throat; everything is slowly sliding south. It appears to be a convention of ageism to which the rest of me has not been invited. Continue reading “Of Necks, Newspapers, and Death”