Monday, July 25, 2011

Friday, July 8, 2011

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Monday, July 4, 2011

Saturday, July 2, 2011

Her hair was like a rope what's woven from the raven's wing
It flowed like river water from her brow
Her eyes were two brown stones that twinkle underneath the water
Her voice moved as quickly as the Hondo...

He saw her and he longed for her, a flower in the desert
His name was gold and silver to the town
To this day who can say if love was written on her heart
All we know is that the flower got cut down.

--from The Ballad of Turley's Bride (a work in progress).
I come from the silence of clapboard houses
from a place that doesn't hurt but doesn't heal
for no soul longs to walk once more the streets of suburbia
no music grows within your heart when you are here
Serious Archaeologists are sexy.

Friday, July 1, 2011