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August 2008
The Process
For me, poetry strikes like lightning. Fiction, on the other hand, is pure toil. Sometimes, it's the toil of really great sex. Sometimes it's more like playing solo tag with Dick Butkus wearing a Minnesota Vikings uniform and covered in hot dogs. Sometimes you just get Dick, you know?Archives
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She's Worse than Helen...suddenly missing Wow Texan in Transit been there... done that Template for Boredom My (ongoing) Weakness for Surveys My Weakness for Surveys top ten downtown... Categories
ExpositionJournal Poetry Listening To
Moroccan Spirit, Paris Combo, Peggy Lee, Jacques Dutronc, White Stripes, Andrew Bird's Bowl of Fire, Cake, Nick Drake, Black Eyed Peas, Azam Ali, The Kinks, The Beatles, Old Blind Dogs, The Vines, Francoise Hardy
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« Magdelene | Main | rent » June 23, 2003
sparrow Mother, I think of you A bird flew from her fingertips Mother, I dream of you A bird flew from your fingertips Posted by rowan at June 23, 2003 09:40 PM
Comments:
I like all the poems so far, but this is particularly touching. Your love for your mother and her gifts to you are so moving. Posted by: Star on June 24, 2003 04:49 PM all the poems are beautiful! keep up the good work. Posted by: Troy Smith on June 24, 2003 11:05 AM Post a comment:
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