Golden-eyed rushed, we waiting for neon. Waiting for neon.
A sign to believe on that will glow in the dark. - AKS
SOMEWHERE WEST OF Manhattan, Kansas, I stepped out of the car and looked in all directions. Flat. Like they said. But interesting. Which they hadn’t said. A decent release of a bowling ball thrown from that vantage point could have meant a strike at the other end of the state. Barring any interference from the tumbleweeds.
OK, I ADMIT IT. I like the sound of “Spicer on Men”. I should just wrap it up right now and let the beauty of that headline resonate. I’ve been such a fan of men that it always seemed cruel and unusual punishment to have to choose just one. My compromise- one at a time (although factoring in Eastern Standard vs Pacific, oh never mind). In celebration of them, I’ll start by talking about that yearly ritual, the annual Mother/Daughter banquet.
And the sign said buckle in, an occasional wind might unfurl.
I STARTED A book once. It just kept writing. It didn’t want to stop. It didn’t like to be edited. It swung from a chandelier and gave me the finger, and bulked up on words until it was so heavy with conception it refused to be birthed, as though the living had happened already when no one was looking - and it was never going to be happy until one of us was dead.