Not Enough Words

Changing words.

There are so so many I have. Would love to give place to play.

I can’t is simple.


It doesn’t hurt as much as an explanation.

Don’t ask me anymore questions because I’m covered in bruises. Cuts I to don’t have time to cover.

Blood it can’t be bothered to wipe away.

Unless you carry a first aid kit

Listen to I can’t.

I can’t

look it up. Grand words for grand life work in poems, not in shuffling savings to checking to keep the lights on.

I run in place for punishment

While others walk barefoot with snails for joy

Typing with one hand, stirring with the other

Roasting juices in my paragraphs

Might actually flavor the story

With something more than

Killing the hero because you have

Nothing left for her to lose.

I do not have the emotional savings to spend heedlessly on

Wrapping thoughts in pretty packages

So I don’t scare those with time and to linger and stare

I. Can’t.

I could if it had a Time Machine and could fly back and make a million new choices of

not that boy, not that night, not that class, not that city, not that job, not that medicine, not that friend, not that dog, not that apartment, not that wet carpet, not that road with all the traffic, not that friend who wasn’t, not that doctor, not that birthday, not that baby

Maybe I would have the luxury of resource to tell you how I might

So indulge in the gift bestowed of the chance to triple edit thoughts for perceived wisdom and palatablilty. Be honored as a creator and thinker of unsurpassing genius

Barely linking syllables, I will continue saying I can’t.

Because only I care to know the before and after sounds. And I listen if only because I can’t do anything else.

Erudition and Examination



And tomorrow we’ll


I hope

maybe we could

if you want

do you

you decide

whatever you want







take your breath away?


what I want

hand on 

your chest

feel it leave

lips inhale it past

I want 

to be dizzy

from the


ideas and air

I want 

the good 

on paper

to be good

from a 



bucolic seed

on cotton


become practice



not by the book

by the hand

from straight crisp pages

inked only by their

unknown printer

to fingers curled 

from their own experience

not empirical evidence

based in 

experimental experience

without theory

But I have a theory

and I want to experiment


put hands on 






by examination

and not

be found 



Did what now?

I wrote a novel. 

It’s living here: Drowning Above Water

A novel. 


That aside-

Let’s  sit in amazement of the real achievement– that I made and included a link. 

Let’s look to the right of this page and see the aforementioned made and included  widget. (Maybe. I hope.)  A. Widget.  It does widget-y things, kids. Widget bitches. 

That aside-

Writing a novel is hard. Really god damn hard. And I survived it. 

Know what is harder? Making a cover. Especially when you can’t draw and have no access to artists. 

Know what will make an atheist find religion? Trying to format and margin and page number this brat. 

I cried. A lot. 

I panicked. 

I was an insufferable human. 

Any awful slander said against me is probably true. 

That aside-

I still don’t have a cover that works. 


I don’t know anything about marketing. And have few finances to do so. 

I don’t know how to Book the Faces or make cards. 

But I wrote a novel. And I think it’s pretty good. 

And I did make that widget. 

So maybe there’s hope.