At The Age Of Giving Zero Fock-A-Roonies, And How I Got Here – the 4th letter to the prettiest girl in town

Whilst tapping the proverbial foot, I await this thing I have avoided for over a decade. Queued, with no particular place to go, I await this call that will determine the date of removal of what remains of my shoddy munchers, as I dream of the day my teeth no longer make me look like a homeless crack whore. Then go out and get the … Continue reading At The Age Of Giving Zero Fock-A-Roonies, And How I Got Here – the 4th letter to the prettiest girl in town

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A 16th: it is solitude

Poem from May 3rd, 2018 it is asolitudeof skyi decidejust nowin the monthof Maybut nottoday Someone said, probably Shakespeare, that “all good things must come to an end”, and so the day of D3’s departure came with nary a hitch, and Sue and I, her friends with him forever, me these last 3 years, stood in the driveway with tears running down both our faces as … Continue reading A 16th: it is solitude

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The 21st: Before The Dawn Of Simplicity

Progressing through these posts, one by one, with a little trepidation, and reading each only maybe twice through, first to read and then again to fix the most garish mistakes and not touch them again, after adding my two cents, or a dollar’s worth.  Of these days of early spring I do recall but hazily, as consumed was my mind on that leaving of a … Continue reading The 21st: Before The Dawn Of Simplicity

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… and a 22nd: On Losing A Friend

Been raining since the dawn, as I began to hear the pitter patter of it outside my window, and so it rained all day. I find myself inside, admiring a refresh of the wee abode, with the harmonizing of my colour scheme and hence given me OOooooMmmmm moments of happiness as I pass through from room to room. Simple things, little things, but big things, … Continue reading … and a 22nd: On Losing A Friend

The 35th: Boho And Buzzard Lore

Why didn’t I post this? I don’t know, stories left untold, fear of waking the dead? Actually, these were originally three separate drafts from the same day, but I stitched them together.  Today Tim usually feels very far away and long, long ago, like a myth, a fairy tale. But, still, he creeps in once in a while, reminds me not to falter, or forget. … Continue reading The 35th: Boho And Buzzard Lore

The 38th Mistake: Doing What You’re Not Suppose To

I’d forgotten, actually, that he used to show up at my door late at night, drunk. This feels like such a long ago and far away place, but it is only just under a year and a half old, and maybe I was too ashamed I guess to post it, as by this point it was supposed to be all done and dusted.  Almost, but … Continue reading The 38th Mistake: Doing What You’re Not Suppose To

And Here’s The 39th: my imperfect self

Well, it was May and I had sat here for maybe a minute and a half enjoying the birds at the feeder before the squirrel found it and hence began the squirrel wars. Enjoying the gymnastics was Irish’s new favourite thing, and my obsession, as I tried to prevent it, and at this point I had as well begun to insert my particular slant on … Continue reading And Here’s The 39th: my imperfect self

that place where artists go to drink

The 44th Draft: how to love a dying man

One theme, one prevailing right from the beginning, the first theme, the theme that started it all – death. A recurring theme. Like the dying and those about to die, those who have loved ones who are dying, all seem drawn to me, over and over. Long and in-depth encounters, or brief liaisons with strangers beside one another at a bar shooting the breeze. I … Continue reading The 44th Draft: how to love a dying man

The Path

So Saith I This Is The 48th: to fiction or non

To say the least, this stroll down the drafty lane is an exercise sometimes in throwing caution to the wind and just let it be, let ‘er fly, flow, and this is one of those, I suppose.  I had to think about this one for a bit, trying to untangle what the heck I was talking about, and then I remembered, I took a stroll … Continue reading So Saith I This Is The 48th: to fiction or non

84th Draft Dredged Up From The Brink: An Old South Dog

I widdle away at them, empty post here with a great big long title, quite a few with no title and no content, out with the lot of ya, and so I came to this one. Well, the Golden bombshell blond has aged and adjusted to city life, she turned 10 this last May, so she’s a senior and thus has calmed down the be-ya-tch … Continue reading 84th Draft Dredged Up From The Brink: An Old South Dog