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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.

make you feel my love

Moscow in winter

work sets you free

coney island baby (licorice and Hershey bars)

Brooklyn Bridge (eggs and sausage)

an early Sunday morning

white riot

after the shoot

the ocean

combat boots and red socks

not even a whisper

the playground

orphans and old bones

that good tired

Their dogs must be barking

the road to the parade

not yet

Ouroboros

late summer

faces (a flood)

the reward for silence (a different person)

a series of surprises

the ocean waits

miniatures (a storm)

the hardest thing

the faucet (drawing a line in the sand is not as easy as I thought it would be)

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best personal blogs