Thoughts on what I’m doing here…

…when the hand races across the page, you don’t know what, and then there it is.  That’s what it’s about.

Creative Nonfiction, Poetry, Essays, Scattered Prose, and the Literary Lyrical–no rules.  No stuffy attitudes.  No fluffy prose.  No lies and no puffy truths.  Just simple writing–uncensored, detailed…a documented love affair, if you will, with the issues and moments at hand.  Scattered, random wit and a touch of the heart if I can’t help myself.  I write.  It is all I do.  I hardly know what the hell I’m thinking or feeling until I see it in font.  And music–music and the words from the greats of an older time that I wish to have been a part of.

Excerpts

  • Howl…there are no poets here gathering in the streets, humming Zen.  Small towns don’t do that./We hide our bodies in fictions and hide our minds in music and fixes/we either dream endlessly and deny reality or squeeze out reality’s final breath in a desperate attmept for   its       devotion…
  • …if you are with your estee lauder, on the cul-de-sac listening to your beeper/when you wanted earlier to hide beneath the subway and collect change beneath skirts so you could fly fly/…the gentlemen watch with their scotch and the new age changes art into new forms, traveling in to seek an out but there is no out,/to any of it/ a march presumes but there is only space and the of-the-moment deals and eclipses of the heart that you will save…
  • I’m a five-year-old in heels, smashing my makeup on the ground, crying into the locked yellow door (of “the bin”).  (PTSD creative writing “Panic of Peace”)
  • …and my memoir has no page numbers…
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