Lilac Wine

The city smells so nice, like someone much larger than we are spritzed an atomizer of perfume over the whole of the place and for them, I am thankful. There are lilac trees in every yard but my own. Their branches droop over the sidewalks, weighty with blossoms, and I have to stop every block or two just to breathe. I made wine form the lilac tree. Put my heart in its recipe. The flowers will close soon. There will be only the smells of the city. It makes me see what I want to see and be who I want to be. The flowers will close soon. Breathe. 

“Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.” 

― Banksy

Don't stop for fear, waiting at the bus stop

Its suitcase heavy, bulky, old

Never got the right change anyway

Never

any

change

Just trying to catch a free ride

From joy to sorrow

(It'll get you there quick)

Go towards the things that make you

happy

Because smiles are hard to come by

These days

And these days,

They don't come cheap

So go where they are

Don't

stop.

one kind and another.

oy vey, oy vey
king of all wild things
does not believe in childhood
rumpus, rumpus
tell them anything
anything at all

(what will you tell them, Moisha?)

tell them
the day will come
when their wolf suit is worn
and pilled and holey
the clean white fur
has gone grey
and ankles poke out
of too short hems

tell them
to make themselves another
or stop by the store
where I hear they're half off

fill a closet with furs,
a shelf with yellow crowns
tell them
they'll need replacements
because childhood does not exist
tell them
because childhood never ends.

. . .

loose lips

sailing ships.

was that even real?

Reckless abandon was not a trait she commonly associated with herself. No, that was a characteristic better left to those who do it best - hooligans and fools, the stupid and the criminal. She was in control, tightly wound, every motion, every utterance, every decision thoughtfully contrived. She was never one to let her hair down in any sense of the phrase. Which is why, late one summer evening while sitting alone beneath a tree, the events that transpired were so peculiar. She reflected. She cried. Eventually, like a watch overwound she came to a halt. She smiled. She laughed. Recklessness ensued.

To Have and Have Not (read Hemingway)

It was morning and over the two distant mountains the sky was clearing and between them the sun also rose. The month was April and the torrents of spring fell almost everyday bidding winter a farewell to arms but not that day, for that was a dry day. A man and woman stood together on the veranda to witness nature's beauty which was true at first light and four miles away in the village a bell tolled and it was haunting. There were islands in the stream that was now flooded into a river and across the river and into the trees the two saw the garden of Eden and they were moved. The man was an old man and had been a sailor in the navy and often spoke of the sea. Just then he looked at the woman and inquired, "have you read much Hemingway?"