Lately, I’ve been writing for myself. Bending to the need.
These prosy little trespassers from my brain may remind some readers of the Sandy!Plex, and my pirate life. Appropriately, because this writing is perpetrated during moments brazenly embezzled from passionless hours.
Never mind backstory: May these dribs impel us, friends. To write!
Plastic bags hissing fury from their tree-finger snares.
The scrape of fresh winter salt under worn shoe heels.
Children trudge gleefully, as if snowboots were soled with sandpaper and the sidewalk was an unfinished prop from a silver screen western.
Woodsmoke smells aggressively cozy.
Boring and frustrating; yesterday was as weak as those adjectives.
Mirth, art, and a salad wrought by a beauty with violent potential.