First Lines – Sometimes you’re nearly spent before the ride even starts

Like a thick, red velvet curtain, opening sentences pull open the imagination and anticipation. Hardwiring an instant connection with the mind of the writer, the opening sentences carve a groove in your soul to fit the rest of the story into. If shiny, resounding, or even just steady or clever – they crack the resolve open and spill out respect and gratitude for the author. Sometimes you’re nearly spent before the ride even starts. Continue reading

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Poetry versus Prose (Act One)

I can throw my thought pieces on the page, shuffle and shift them, rap them out like Tupak, or shape them like a slam – and I’m done.  Then it becomes the reader who must make something out of them.  If I’m skillful enough, the reader wants to make the effort.  If not, they skip or delete.  For me, that’s poetry.

When I write in sentences, I have to think harder.  Continue reading

Drop (March 1999)

look away the maniac
thought once to be the brainiac
at living love and romance (drool),
thought without it life was cruel,
isn’t it ironic?
simply chronic.
what a migraine train
to Hades, ladies,
in first class seats
with nice clean sheets
to mess up with my love making.

shit on a shingle!
where’s Kris Kringle
when i’ve been good
hoping he would
bring me a present
nice and pleasant
somewhat matched
with no heartbreaks attached
(maybe even a picket fence
in some years hence)?
was that too much to ask for fat man?

pardon my rudeness
and excuse the crudeness
when i bash the past
although good to the last

drop.

and a drop is all i feel is left
after all i shared I’m bereft
of anything compared
to what i shared

call it lost or misplaced
unable to be traced
swindled or hijacked
without proper tact
stolen or thieved
i’m still left bereaved
of a piece
or a peace
(whichever you please)
of me that won’t regenerate
i feel like a degenerate
with more left to give
but no strength to give it.

but to live
and not give
would truly be
the epitome
of a dozen-a-dimeful
hazy and crimeful
living
breathing
bitterness seething
work of shame.