Forever Home

East of a little town and down out past the hedges and burrows and scarlet-veined ivy there are two tobacco brown rivers that slit the soil and as they roll off into a backdrop of innumerable golden bushels of wheat and grain and pebbled soybeans there lies a treasured slice of triangulated land that sways rhythmically and sweet beneath the swarms of larks and teals and red breasted mergansers and they all funnel into a conflux where starlings swirl and trails amalgamate and muddy waters gurgle…

The Latticework

I’m the kind of person to whom feelings are more important than logic. I seek exhilaration. This means my walls are pretty thin and that I’m willing to take risks and that I subscribe to psychically relieving mantras that drum to unearthly beats.

A Different Perspective

In Fictions:

The eagle flew down to the mouse. Horrified, the mouse surrendered his ball of cheese in which he had spent an entire month to gather. The eagle spoke placidly, “I have not come to eat you, or your cheese. Come fly with me.”

Undying Melody

In Self-Explorations:

I imagined my grandfather sitting alone with the box in his lap, cranking it up to listen to the Music Box Dancer until those last three seconds slowed to a halt. The silence lingers, the song unfinished, forcing you to contemplate if you are satisfied with its incompleteness or if you want to crank it again.