w84gdo's profile

At first, the offering of a single toe, breaking the mer, releasing a surface tension built of 330 million miles square of earth's surface: not to hot; not too cold. In a pile, discarded the soiled, faux epidermis, abandoned to mustify in the corner of the bathroom until the mood is right or 'til one's wife, grown tired of stepping over, snaps then, and only then, will the refuse, this discarded shell of a crab, be spirited away to the hamper A distant cousin to a drowning, related within the...

GRAVITATING It all starts when you're eight. The screen door slams and you leap off the porch into summer. You can hear your mama's voice calling after, clear as sunshine, "Keep away from that creek!" But the pull of toads and turtles, rock dams and leaf armadas is too great then your best friend, Mr. Too Much Time, leans in, whispers in your ear and off you go The next morning, they're talking at the breakfast table, how the storm came, how the Thompson kids were all playing down at "that pu...

A Phone Call To Nowhere Why there? Why was it placed there and for what purpose? -- assuming there ever was a purpose all recollection is now faded, gone with those who died or moved on, carried away by a Mojave wind, leaving only stainless steel, wire and molded plastic to mummify beneath a thirsty desert sun. And so, the telephone booth stands, its glass shot out, beneath a lone, tar-covered pole. A thin black wire plays out from booth to pole, from pole to pole to pole, stretching across d...

Of Being of being, i am not so quite tired, yet and so, with a shave, a button and a brush (a clean shirt -- if i can find one), i push about the stuff of appearance -- skin and hair, fashion and aspiration -- mold an image (a tad more passable) for all those interested others. and thus, off i'll go, if not into the wild blue, at least into the yonder unlived hours. and like all the children upon whom the minutes descend begging admittance, how it is that i will fill them is up to me, though ...

Small Rooms Down from the apartments down from the bed-sits and walk ups down stairwells and dimly lit corridors hurrying, at the day's final fading up urgent streets, bats at sunset, oyumel-hungry monarchs indentured to millennia-old instincts Inuit, trudging in sealskin boots crossing the narrow dilemma between another evening in and the bench-warrant ardor to pull close dusky collars against the first seasonal flurries of oh, how i hate to be alone. Brightly-lit, holiday furloughs, now res...