500 words

500 words yet unwritten, allowing me to sense their continuous presence, taunting me with their potential and their cleverness just out of reach, blaming me somehow for all the shortcomings of mankind, or at least my own, as if it were my fault that I love them so desperately but forget their order too quickly to put them into the world that expects so much and so little of them.

Enough love to go around

Two Poems for the road

Sunday Sentence: 7 January 2018 from Lynda Barry

I’d be good and the dark ghosts would vanish.  When your inner life is a place you have to stay out of, having an identity is impossible.  Remembering not to remember fractures you.  But what is the alternative?  Tell me.

Who is Harriet Van Horne

From A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway

Life, death and the written word

From Negotiating With The Dead by Margaret Atwood