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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.

oh banjola (goodnight 2017)

girlfriend experience

no words

the daughters of time

this must go

on refrigerators

every other man

Heaven is a place (where nothing ever happens)

trespasses

where are the lovely strawberries

Not me, her

no one wears white

this is Monday

a peaceful protest

the immigrant and the exile

an anniversary

the man on the ladder

a scream, a howl

no answer (the melon seller)

Breathing the right air

the forbidden zone

underfoot (rare air)

on vacation (see you next week)

approaching the unknown

coming clean

babel

small change (exceptions)

cold nostalgia

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