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Showing posts from July, 2013

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the white table

The days are not long. The nights are short. Guitars are hiding in cases, with scraps of paper tucked inside. The pen is full. There is a fresh notebook, with creamy pages. The little white desk is in the middle of the living room, a cascade of receipts and laundry perched on it.

I clean it off, have lunch as it stares back at me. This focal point, this fulcrum where my thoughts become real, this cheap folding table from Ikea. It is familiar, and patient.

the prisoner

leaving the tinker-toy world (my friend Harold and the Purple Crayon)

when to pay

no place else to go (making imaginary circles)

Even the flies know how to find the openings

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best personal blogs