me write. me like books.
Upon the wings, There sits a clown. Who, soon, it seems Will float on down. The way he leans His lonely crown It only means
The Virtues of Childhood
Children to men, Diapers to jobs, Innocence to sin, And we wonder why we're lost. The blooming flower is holy in the early morning light.
The Rich Man and The Cauldron
“Power. I have it. 11 super cars that normal men only dream of touching. 14 casinos opening in one year. Five million dollar mansions. Women. Fame. I am as physically fit as any normal body builder. My mindset is greater than any poor fool who works every day for his small percentage of what he is owed. You are weak. I am all knowing. My pronouns are God or King. No longer a man. I am an ascended being because I have that which makes one powerful in this life. Forget what happens when I die. Forget karma or good deeds for I am all. All is I.”
The Duck & The Platypus
A duck found himself lost in a small pond. He picked a shady piece of water to rest underneath a pear tree while he contemplated on where he was.
Hotel De La Cielo
The cocaine had worn off and another line seemed odd this close to morning. But, fuck it. Sleep is for the dead and although I might be closer than most, I have plenty of life left.
The Wagon Man
Hector awoke. Early morning light sprinkled rays of shadow on his face reminding him of running through the wheat field his father had grown in his youth. He turned to see his wife, Matilda, sleeping beside him.
The Problem with Perfection
The brow was close. Very close. Cheeks were exquisite as well. But something was off. I scurried like a mouse to the paint cabinet.
South of France in a Town Called La Trèpas
The daises shook their white manes in the windy dew sprinkled morning. Father’s chateau gleamed brilliantly in the soft sunlight. I felt the shivers trickle down my spine as the wind picked up and, like it always did, wisp my long brunette hair against my tan freckled cheeks. The gardener had always done an amazing job, but this summer he had outdone himself. The flowers were arranged in neat little rows which intertwined as they worked their way down to the antique fountain that rested at the bottom of the small hill. There were daises, roses, petunias, and marigolds, all mixed together in beautiful patterns and colorful designs. Four slender marble statues stood closer to the fountain all facing different directions. My favorite was the beautiful one-armed woman who looked outwards into the mountains that surrounded La Trèpas. Her smile reminded me of my mother.