pressured by fronts and driven to tears

we are not so unlike clouds in the sky, are we, puffy and bleached turning gray, you can see through us and other times opaque we hide our secrets inside us, coming for us and striking through they do, yet still we remain intrinsically unscarred or untouched, reflecting it all sea to sea and the earth, where we travel we leave the residue our prints passing silently along, forensics loves a cloud, made of water and vapor we are and capable of many forms, evocative of endless feelingstates, containing our own electromagnetic storms we are carried by winds and made by trial and fire, under certain conditions we scatter and the streets become empty and clear like the sky, monotonous, monochromatic we are pressured by fronts and driven to tears

journal

Journal # 08.07.16

Quentin he was out on the porch which corners mine, when I went to call for the kids. A few long and lingering whistles is all. I’m sure he’s heard me calling many a night before. There’s really no need to explain myself which is one of the luxuries of being neighbors. Quentin and I have never met until now. He’s pale and stout and dark, and well-spoken, and I have never seen him standing up. He grew up here. He just moved back from Palm Desert or Springs, not sure which. I have a faint interest in Southern California. He tells me the sudden rise of mountains there give a false sense of security and he liked living there, the people were kind.

Seems to me in one month every single apartment next door has turned over, but I could be wrong. I know two of four have. I liked some of the kids who left (and they were all kids), but I don’t mind the turnover. Keeps life interesting. Q (he said I can call him Q) is too hungover to make an interview, he says, and puts out his cigarette, picks up his cell phone and calls it off. Some people would never do that. It takes guts to call off an interview. I like him already.

Aside The action won’t always be yours. The sidelines are waiting and you will make an interesting cheerleader what with your inflexibility, Einstein. Bicycles resting against one another on the walls. Saturday nights that never end. Distant signals and lone sirens and crossings. Flagpoles without flags. Broken glass gleaming in the streets. A bend in a hose that stopped the water in its pressured tracks. The threads of the faucet are getting wet under the back pressure. I think there are five colors to any head of hair. Two primary, three subtle, and I’d rather not throw it in your face. It is early Sunday morning, after all, and half of you will get a preaching, and half of those won’t be in safety of church.

story

Maze 2:15:1

In the last episode 2:14:7 Ame is waxing poetic on love and the orphans have come back from the seven eleven and are literally forcing her to play with them. If she refuses they might push her into traffic. Damn kids!

Book Two
Daughter of Darkness Series
Chapter 15:1

K on K

I am an Independent Author, Blogger, Novelist, and Social Worker. I like silence and intermittent noise. I like mostly sunshine between great storms. I feel good when devoted to something. I love a little ritual madness. I probably seem a little off. I hope I always am. I wanna keep my heart in the right place. I like to get in and out of self. I believe in freedom of self-expression, and I work very hard at my craft. I hope you take the time to read something I wrote. I try and keep the language fresh, and experiment. The one and only common element is my style, which cements the language.  -K