Pots and pans on the stove, in the sink.
Shreds of paper on the floor.
Stacks of mail precarious upon the table.
Paint residue on my arm and between my fingers.
Doors are locked.
Lights off.
And my car–with baked on remains
of many suicidal bugs across the windshield–
speeds off into the night
again.
When I was 14 years old, I told my dad I wanted to be a writer. I could feel it in my bones. I knew writing was what gave my life its most profound meaning. I could taste it. “I think I want to be a writer,” my young, tender
In an effort to put a more selfless face on my writing, I hereby submit this blog of my words. I can’t promise it’s safe here in my head. Enter at your own risk. But if you do come, introduce yourself, Reader, because maybe yours will be the face I place in my mind when I focus on my reader in the future. And then I can never again say I’m not certain who you are, because you will have pulled up a chair, put your feet on the coffee table, and taken up residence here in my brain. Sorry about the mess. I hope you’ll stay awhile.
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