sometimes
there are no words
she speaks with her eyes
and earthly intentions
all led amiss
by unfinished scripts
the way some people
always find a door
he finds himself
leaning on the jam
reaching for a cigarette
the remains of a fake passport
and a trail of blood
left far behind
in concrete gardens
with a view of the moon
driving the ocean crazy
i like it here
running his fingers
over inlaid mother of pearl
do you have
a towel
This entry was posted on February 21, 2013 at 9:32 pm and is filed under short story, Writing and Poetry with tags art, baseball, bigfoot, birthdays, cake, cannibals, christianity, criminal activity, elvis, explosions, fire, gangster, god, harold camping, homecoming, jersey shore, liquor, love, miracles, music, new jersey, pagan, partical physics, patriotism, philosophy, poetry, red sox, religion, sasquatch, satre, sex, short story, suspense, sweet memories, thug, trains, travel, USA, wildlife, wombats, writing, yeti, zombie. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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all of it 
February 22, 2013 at 10:03 am
Nice one….
I particularly like
“in concrete gardens
with a view of the moon
driving the ocean crazy”
February 22, 2013 at 6:17 pm
laughs, ….i have my moments