Book o’ Verse

Cell phone calls in public toilets. Smelling funny. Mysteries. “What? What?” But there’s no mistress. No jealous second life. Just nervous habits.

There’s a campfire in Carol’s coffee cup. Smoke signals. S.O.S. “Get me. Out of. Here.”

She liked to look the other way when she opened bathroom doors because you never know.

Soul is not space, not molecules. You can fit all the world’s souls in the crack of your ass. However, just because you can doesn’t mean you should.

Today my son is the Black Fox in a one-kid revival of the ’50s classic, The Court Jester as he stands around the kitchen shouting: “Hawkins, get out of my clothes.” “Hawkins, get out of my clothes!” He wants to play with Danny Kaye but Danny Kaye is long gone.

That Victorian isn’t old. That car isn’t old. My Sinatra records aren’t old. Not that old. Not really. Even that old tree isn’t old. That old woman who just walked past like she just stepped out of Deuteronomy with a flock of goats trailing behind and a thin little stick and a plan to get … Read more

I’m wearing big pants today big comfy pants size none of your damn business pants so big, so comfy makes me want to have a piece of cake a piece of chocolate cheese cake stretch these big pants out.

Somedays he looks at me like I’m sleeping with his wife. And I’m sure. I’m almost sure. That I’m not.

Checking in to find them lying side by side in the dark like sisters comparing notes on what had been the best part of the day.

There’s a man there by the window. And he’s speaking with such precision you can see the letters spit forth into air shiny newborne serifs spinning. And his words are just hanging out there piling up there in a loose stack by the window free dialog for the taking. I’ll pass.