long slender fingers as a mother strokes the face of her angel to sleep or calloused ... CONTINUED
trespassing (again)
a sepia-stained ramshackle mess is all that remains of the gallery where we first met. i ... CONTINUED
once it was said
once it was said how a prophet searched for your voice on mountaintops, in temples, by the sea ... CONTINUED
Done with the Game
I’m done chasing muses for a cup of coffee or a quickie behind the bleachers where games get ... CONTINUED
Until Last Night
Until last night I slept soundly living in a world devoid of you (ignorance is bliss) and those ... CONTINUED
Remembering Bukowski
Prowling the streets and lanes Of Amsterdam I used to cruise the bookstores With a fresh-faced ... CONTINUED
A Confession (of sorts)
You’d think by now I’d know better (or maybe not, who can really say?) because even though I’d ... CONTINUED