Desert HighwayButterfly, cross the highway. Thin-slit wings gilded with exhaust. LeadingDesert Highway
the cowgirl: Oil and leathered boots, sweat behind her ears. Mirages don’t melt, don’t drip to the blacktop.
Eyes like a gunshot, or a backfiring engine, or 120 mph without a seatbelt.
Pine ValleyI. The ValleyPine Valley
Night fell in bits and pieces. First, over the pine trees and the conifers on the ridge, exposing the faintest pricks of light dusted over an injured sky. It then fell out on the other side where beyond the dusk-colored river the meadow stretched out to the hunched mountains, and finally it caved in directly overhead, leaving a clear path for the moon to lope along. They would say it was a little too cold, not as comfortable as it could be, but at least the bugs weren’t biting. They would say a lot of things that night.
Marla crouched by the river, touching the fingerti
Yours, and Not MineIt would make me smile, when you drove too fast. Air streaming in, and starlight in early twilight. Out the sunroof I would look because the road ahead was just too much.Yours, and Not Mine
Maybe I hurt, when the phone was quiet. And doorbells rang no bells. Inside, or out the door I never wanted to run from you or your bloodshot blues.
Craving everything, when one thing would do. Your addictions and convictions. Too harsh, and
eclipsed were my only claims that I did love you.
Persistence of AntsI rode through the desert on a horse with no eyelashes - his persistence astounded me - what with time heavy on his back and my spurs deep in his flanks - maybe thinking he would melt and then the ants would come to sip up the juice - like dew - and go back to that anthill off in the distance - a shining sea and glimmering clocks that blind mine and the horse’s eyes - but he can’t breath anymore - so I guess it doesn’t matter whether time marches on - down his spine or around my spurs or under the pointed toes of ants - when night closes - and the curtain drops so does memory sinking or sliding over the flooding waters near but far with thatPersistence of Ants
Madame Mutt“Oh man . . . you’ve got Madame Mutt . . .” Confused, I looked down at the name, phone number, and address I’d scribbled down on the back of an envelope: Clarissa Sinclair, 465-4329, 263 Pentecost Street. Putting my elbow on the bar, I turned to face my friend Elvin. “Whaddaya mean? Who is she?” “You don’t know Madame Mutt? Jeez, you really are new here. Still unbelievable, you’ve been here over a year and you still don’t know about her . . .” “No, I don’t! What the hell’d she do?” “She’s psycho. I can’t get over the fact that you don’t know the story. I thought everyone here knew it.” “I guess everyMadame Mutt
Hi! Hello! Hola!
--
Eyes are in the Beauty of the Beholder
Aang:"You're insane, aren't you?"
Old Woman: "Thaaaat's Right!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm a member of *AngstyWriters
I was wondering if you'd like to join ~freelance-writers
--
[link]
With great art tutorials and discussions.
I see how you are
--
If dreams are like movies...
Then memories are films about ghosts.
~Kindred~
Life overwhelms me. I'll bug you when things calm down. And I'll come back to DA.
--
-Ravie
It appears my hypocrisy knows no bounds.
--
If dreams are like movies...
Then memories are films about ghosts.
~Kindred~
YOU!
ACTIVE!
NOW!
--
If dreams are like movies...
Then memories are films about ghosts.
~Kindred~
*snicker*
I'll be back real real soon. I've got stuff to post.
--
-Ravie
It appears my hypocrisy knows no bounds.
Or...write a journal.
Or...comment on some of the drek that I wrote recently.
Or...make a new ID.
Or...WHATEVER!
It's up to you, young padawan, to rekindle my faith in god putting women on this planet for a better reason then making MY life a miserable barren wasteland devoid of any sort of pleasure or outspoken appreciation.
But at least i'm not bitter.
--
If dreams are like movies...
Then memories are films about ghosts.
~Kindred~
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