Will write for yarn.
The wind dries our bones,
leaves hollows, marrow
sapped,
fallow no more.
Inside
in the paths,
circuits, neurons spark and
go
along sear,
synaptic lines.
What once lit and danced
now
sits shelled.
Lovers linger
under dying vines outside
cafes.
They hold no sway over us
Old Folk.
And the fair kiss
they trade
we know will fade
and pitiless winter
come again.
The house I grew up in is now a store. A running and walking shoe store, to be exact. The point is, you can walk in whenever they’re open and see the dining room where I played piano and made up songs about my brother’s stuffed animals, the kitchen where I learned of my parents’ [...]
My daughter got her driver’s license last week, which has made me feel kind of old, and kind of nostalgic. We bought her a 1995 VW Jetta from a friend of mine and just finished getting it road-ready, but she still can’t drive it since it’s a manual transmission.
But I can.
I took that car out [...]
It’s hot and my feet are old. It used to be that I had time to make myself into a girl, but now it’s all I can do to make myself get up. All I want right now is to put down this laundry and this sad life and put on lip gloss that smells [...]
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