No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
One sometimes has to make sacrifices for art. She loves the richness of an oil painting, its depth. Although she hasn’t given away any of her artwork, it might be time.
Her husband is no longer here to object to her giving her artwork away, to spending money on art supplies, to having a hobby that has nothing to do with being a farm wife.
And if you fade, fade as slowly
as a deeply bruised shoulder.
Black and purple come first
then livid blue then a lash of yellow.
Though he also would have walked dogs if a star had asked him. He knew we needed money. The apartment we found was almost like the opposite of the pampered Hollywood places, where people parked your car for you. We lived in a ticky-tack jumble more like a chicken coop, with every apartment squeezed up against every other. Through the walls we heard our neighbors’ arguments or listened to their TVs blare. We ended up there because, unfortunately, Dirk’s mother’s diamond earring wasn’t pawnable.
The first story I remember writing was about a child who had fallen off a stagecoach as it rattled over a western plain. I had never seen a stagecoach, or a western plain.
So many issues regarding elitism have arisen lately in my quasi-literary life that I’m impelled to write an essay. I don’t flatter myself that I have a "literary" life, hence the above qualification. Books have always been a refuge, even when I don’t read them. In my childhood I had a packed bookcase at the right side of my bed on top of my bureau. That bookcase was like the walls of Babylon. It prevented dragons from getting through to me.
“I’ll come see you one day, promise.” Kiara tottered over to him. She gave him another hug, despite his evident discomfort.
She seemed to like him, in a maternal way. He liked her too. She was smart and funny. She had great taste in music.
Deep down, she must have known something wasn’t right in her relationship with Miles. In breaking them up, he was doing them both a kindness.