No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
There are no rules. I had a teacher once who told the class that if we took a picture of the state capital building in Providence he’d fail us. Oddly, I never have, and always look at that building like it’s a complete failure of a structure.
...My preferred setting is solitude and silence and a room free of ornamentation and distraction. Sometimes I write at a desk. Sometimes, on the couch. Or in bed....
skill in writing surfaces early
Midnight came and the beach had light from a cut of moon...
Imagine a 3.5 to 4 year-old kid in North Las Vegas Nevada, 1967 and ’68, trying like hell to figure out the airship, kooky characters…and hey, what’s a diamond…?!
I’d been talking to Salesman John about a sleeper sofa for our newly painted den when a woman slipped into Hip, the name as well as descriptor of a neighborhood furniture store. She was like air whooshing through the door. “Excuse me,” a whispery interruption. “Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me,” a flatlining of fast words.
The woman, spoke to John. She didn’t see me, or chose not to. I could have been an image, a hologram, a statue, pen in one hand, papers in the other, mouth hanging.