Category: Writing Life
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2 more days
I’ve been a bad blogger of late. I think I’m using all my reserves for the poems or maybe it’s just too damn cold here. Sunny California awaits. 70 degrees and did I mention sunny? I’m going to sit by the water and take deep breaths. I was hoping the poem I was working on…
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dream wall
The past two nights I’ve dreamed of a box, a rectangle on the wall I can’t quite see. A piece of paper perhaps, but written on. It may not even be paper, I can’t see it clearly enough. It may be stone, wood, a pale face. Ancient. It wakes me up, but I can’t see…
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This poem needs a sacrifice
Last night I took a drive. Not because I felt I needed to, but because my mom sent me a $10 coupon for shoes and I wanted to look at the sale shoes. I bought a new CD. “Lungs” by Florence + The Machine. Her music is epic. Not the epic that teenagers say these…
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Monday is like any other day
I’m supposed to be writing something for work, but I’m writing this instead. I’ve felt a lot of things already today. Another high, deep love. I’ve almost finished another one and I even cried after it had settled. I cried a drip drop because this morning I was just so damn happy to be doing…
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Tapped
I thought I heard a stranger in a crowd say my mom’s name this morning. Perhaps she’s just on my mind today. I’ve been hearing things that aren’t really there the past couple of days. Crickets from his chest, his arm pit – summer crickets. Where do crickets go in the winter? Do they all…
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WHAT ARE YOU PLOWING?!!!
There is a man outside snow-blowing China. At least that’s what it sounds like as he’s certainly gone over his allotted snow-blowing time. We got 5 inches buddy, use a shovel, it might be good for you. I find it funny that people around here have snow-blowers. It really doesn’t snow THAT much. I mean…
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Thanks
I feel anxious and bored at the same time. Unsure of what to write today if anything. There’s always something to say, but deciding if we want to say it or not is another question. Yesterday I talked to my bestie about writers being loners, solitary beings and I believed it believed it believed it…
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The grumpy barista
I held my coffee through the dark, U-ed around the banister, found the landing in the deepest black, the occasional car passing on the road outside shedding light through the curtain. I did it all without seeing where I was going. How much of what we do is just a bodily memory of having done…