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BETWEEN EARTH AND HEAVEN
He is certain that the sky is always blue and when it seems cloudy it is just that Magritte has risen from his grave and brush in hand, painted the sky and clouds. She scoffs at the idea, knowing full well the clouds are merely rice paper cutouts floating on a gentle breeze.
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THE SAD LIFE OF THE WRITER
She says, “you suffer from scriptor interruptus, which makes her laugh, and she says you have to have a thought to be interrupted and we both know it has been a long while since you’ve been there, but keep holding the pen, you never know what might come out.”
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LIVING
They sit in a small wine bar on an out-of-the-way street in an out-of-the-way city, she sipping a Oregon Pinot Noir while he is on his second Alsatian Pinot Gris. She asks him if he ever thinks about death. He peers into his wine glass, than at her and smiles a gentle smile, “I don’t,”…
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TURNING
He says, “I’ve run out of cheeks, my own family has used up so many and there are so few left, I save them to have one to turn when someone sincerely and truly atones.” “I suppose,” she says, “there is some logic to that.” “Not at all,” he replies, “for if someone truly atones,…
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TWINKLE, TWINKLE LITTLE STAR
He says what he wants most is to own a star, outright, no sharing. She says that he already does, at least a part of one, and he should be happy with that. He laughs at her, and reminds her that stars are huge, and even a part of one would light the room and…
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ROAD TRIP
Two nights gone and sleep has come fitfully, and I stir each time I reach across the bed and you aren’t there, and there is only the faintest smell of bleach and cleaning solvent. I want very much to dream of you, to trace your cheek with dream fingers, to taste your lips on mine,…
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MORNING BECOMES
We awaken and look at each other as though we are meeting for the first time. Your eyes seem new to me, but well remembered, a place I have often been, which is always new, always where I want to go, from which I want to never return. I trace your chin, your shoulder-blade, and…
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ERGO COGITO
She says she is certain she exists, much as she is certain he exists as well. He says, she thinks she exists, thinks he does as well. Descartes, he says, was…
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NIGHT CHANGES
Night alters sound in ways we can never precisely determine. It is possible our hearing changes with the flight of the sun, but the moon scoffs at this premise. A train rattling across the landscape in the heat of day becomes a musical instrument in the relative silence of night, playing a melody that insuates…
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DEMONS
In the night there are no demons, just the sound of your breathing, and your soft touch on my back, your foot against my calf.
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an old writer and his words 