I remember the Parker’s. You cross the creek bout two miles down a dirt road and through the wood. Then you are at the Parker’s house. I remember the Parker’s outhouse. I remember the smell. I remember the house. Windows with flour sack curtains. Bare bones, wood frame house. No…

We Were Within a colonization of tombstones. Verdant rites of spring, Arms of earth, embrace parched epitaphs, to buried thirst. Where once was barefoot glee, of those now interred. The sun breaks upon monuments to the pouring sky. Nesting larks, busy, building a home upon a mourning angels crown. Sentinel Gargoyle, gazing on the grave diggers glistening back, Murmurs ‘Quasimodo ‘ Monuments hold high to the pouring sky.

You could call me a derelict, I suppose. Not surprising I would find myself in the company of same. I looked up ‘derelict’ and it’s usage has increased over the past 30 or so years. Originally it meant ‘abandoned’ and still does. An abandoned building, an abandoned ship floating unmanned…

I realized, I am now working on writing a story that only means something to me. They say write what you know. We all know something. Hell, I meet people ever day who know stuff I don’t know. They could write about it. I don’t know how to write but I am learning to not really give shit about other peoples opinions or criticism. It dawns on me how hard it is to put stuff into words when you are playing to the critics and the grammar police. (Mostly in your own head) Hell, who wants that?

Memento Mori, We are the doomed. We set earth on fire. We soaked the Mother with poison. Gaia weeps, Weeps for her unborn. For her stillborn. For her screaming creation. …