Under This Full Moon

I danced to salsa music at the waters' edge on the beach, all alone, as darkness fell, bundled up - flap hat, cashmere scarf, layered sweaters under a leather jacket, gloves, jeans over long underwear, cashmere socks, hiking boots. And my ipod, playing...

Comments

This Poem, A Song

"Bones" by Libby Roderick I come from a long line of dead people I come from a tall pile of bones My people lie sleeping all under the world Their souls turn to roots, leaves and stones. My grandpa went by whiskey in an L.A. hotel His dad died of Ohio coal And before him, and before that, they slipped under the ground Fewer bones walk above than below. My great grandmother's eyes stare out from my face Her skinny bones dance around in my clothes You can almost hear the whisper of her sweet southern song In this voice I've been calling my own. A toast to the living, walk us walk down the aisle So these bones can be married to the flesh for awhile. A song, a song for the living, though the flesh worries when These bones will be leaving to join family again. I come from a long line of dead people I come from a tall pile of bones My people lie sleeping all under the world Their souls turn to roots, leaves and stones.

Excerpts from Notes from Paris: A Work in Progress, Part One

When I turned 30, I went to Paris for the first time, under circumstances far from what I'd envisioned when, sprawled across my bed as a teenager, I dreamt up a romantic vision of my adult life that included going there. But... I went, and it felt like home from the moment the plane wheels met the tarmac at Orly. Soon after, I made a decision to put all my spare hours into writing, to see what was there. Though I had written almost every day since I was 10, I wanted to try my hand at all it's forms in a disciplined way, and set the stage to discover once and for all if it was my calling. I was living in Hollywood then and so ripe to leave, but I had a few commitments there, keeping me from a wish to move to New York. To cope, I began to go to Paris on a regular basis, even rented an apartment for the span that a long-stay visa would allow (6 months), to see where it took me. By the time I arrived, unexpected developments caused me to cut that plan short. But ...

Knives and Bones

He put the cleaver down, having no more use for it. The body parts were separated now, spread out and ready to further dismantle. He had just an hour – maybe less -- to finish before the family returned. Selecting a boning knife from his cache of tools, he skillfully whet the straight blade in rhythmic strokes, relishing the sound of steel against stone, then raised the knife slowly, worshipfully, until the edge caught a glint from the light overhead. He ran his finger over the edge to test it– being cautious not to slice his latex glove. He hoisted the whole, bloodless leg to the table top, which he’d taken pains to meticulously cover with plastic. Though the limb had bled out, a transparent string of goo caught hold of his apron, stretching out like a thread of spiders’ silk, which snapped once the leg landed. He worked quickly now, blade flashing, deftly separating skin from fascia, pushing remnants of fat aside to afford him a solid grip on th...

IsThisThingOn?

Search This Blog