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January 2011
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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« viva la tango | Main | Christmas » November 18, 2003
the kingfisher His wings skimmed against the water His beak showed the weathering What a spring it was Tufts of feathers trailed behind him What a spring it was Posted by rowan at November 18, 2003 05:57 PM |
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