Tag Archives: moon

Today is June 13, 2015. I am alive and well.

Excerpt from my second book—–

I want to have a party with fake alcohol and see how many people act like they’re wasted; rum, not rum, roars through the thin man who pinches the breasts of the host. She giggles, then slaps him after coming to her senses–the slap smells of beef, a fingerprint left on his cheek.

I want to repay all the kindnesses my friends have shown me all their lives. A sunflower bends at the neck in welcome. I hand out handkerchiefs, love wrapped in knots of stripes and polka dots–it is simple.

I want to travel the world bagging people’s groceries. A stick of butter rubs skin with a potato in London. The jolly man in Brazil grins with green jello the color of palm leaves. Canned beets are slippery in Seattle, a banana rots at the foot of an onion in Germany. Radishes remain the dirty spice that they are everywhere I go.

I want to say meow durning a speech. All the dogs will riot when they learn the bill won’t pass the Senate; it’s a matter of people fighting while wearing helmets in the ring. The blood loss would be cut in half with the ear out of the way.

I want to believe in God. God has come to me in the form of a twisted branch in a tree three stories high. Leaves rejoice!

I want to have a story worth telling. I wake to the woman mowing the grass outside my open bedroom window, smell the grass, chamomile with a touch of honey. Paint a purple mustache on my niece’s doll. Ask her where Ken’s head is.

I want to take a cute girl to the moon. She smiles as I strap her into the card board box. The stereo explodes with the sound of flame. I tell her “close your eyes and imagine cheese.” In no time, we hear mail being dropped through the door’s slot and know we are still grounded. The moon was another dream, like cows pirouetting to Greenday’s Awesome as Fuck.

I want to go to a city where nobody knows me and act like a completely different person. My name will be Charlie, an easy name, one I will recognize on a stranger’s tongue. I will wear boots and smoke cigarettes and smile only in the grocery store from where I buy slices of cake. My downfall is butter cream, I like it on toast in ┬áthis new life of mine.


Today is December 20, 2014. I am alive and well.

It is important to write moon, write sun, write day. The day begins when the moon tires and the sun magnifies ants.

I smell wood burning. Even in Arizona there are fireplaces. It is a chilly 60. I have yet to turn on the heat. I opt for sweaters.

Some insect has attached nests to the corners of my patio. THe nests, gray, round masses with holes in them. I would think wasp, but the nests are too small.

The ants have tunneled their way into the dirt. Do they too get cold?

The sun slips, the moon comes up. I am a lone figure standing at my bedroom window with no curtains. The dark curls around my waist. It is not dark enough that I can’t see my boots even though they are black. My reflection falls forward. I am in full view of anyone standing on the sidewalk outside my window. I do not worry about this. Why no worry? What is one to do with the sight of a lone figure…continue walking.

It has been a day filled with silent conversation I manufacture on my own. I drink water in between periods. End the sentence and say goodnight. I will sleep to the patter of feet on my bed kneading their way to nowhere. Eventually, the cats will settle down. I want for nothing. The moon is nice, is calming. It will tire again and I will have a new day in which to eat French toast; heavy on the syrup. I want for nothing.