I brandish a bucket of magical seedsso delicate and rare they must beplanted under cover of moonlight before the clocks fall back. The correct mix of mischief and mudensures a harvest free of blight,and by the time turkey falls off the bone,I'll have a bumper crop of candy to call my own. What better…

The Perfect Moment: Warmth spreads out from the center of my belly, and the top of my head rolls back. Grey matter, light as goose down, floats right up and out of my skull. Goodbye, cotton candy consciousness. It drifts away in tufts of pink. The world is as it should be in this warm,…

Leaves take a freefall. Inoperative airflow.  Autumn disorder.

Hey squeaky wheel! We feed you grease to shut you up. You're happy, we're happy. Your demands are more than tiresome but we've played this game so long. We'd be lost without the other, wouldn't we? We prime the pump and get a torrent of nonsense. So little value for all the gum flapping you…

Build them.Stand by what I say.Lay my head on something more substantial than dreams.Cases are made for the most confounded things.The first light is usually right, and pushes me in the direction that scares me the most.Afraid or not, here I come.

Holding out for something a grade or two above middling. Now those are aspirations to keep you up at night! How can you be sure opportunity did not come knocking when you were flat on your back counting logs and sawing sheep? My point exactly. Enough is enough until you cross the finish line. Success…

  magic window box spectres thrive unattended blue ribbon nightmares

    We lost our grip before we even knew there was a handle to grab onto.Should have known better.Tsk.Tsk.Triple check that non-existent list.Cluster incompetence and a quick flight home.

Rolled up like a cigar in the sweet, damp grass or stretched across the attic rafters, there's no waking up from this crazy dream. Everyone is upside down, gasping, groaning. All guts and no grace. Lessons catch in my throat and never make their way into my marrow. All is lost. All is forgotten. The…

One syllable to describe what is left of compassion. Humility. A thin-sliced memory. Bloody shreds of decency left scattered for the crows' feast. Monuments eventually crumble into pocket-sized souvenirs. Hold that shard of humanity close to the chest. Protect it with your last breath. The line forms to the left. Single file we head for…