where the writers are
Alarm Clock
photos 8 24 09 056.jpg


October 8





The dream-killer plays its harsh tones.  I pull my lids, so unwilling to wake.  The tip of my tongue, dry to leather, welcomes the wet of my toothbrush.  I grin a foaming smile.  I run through my night's travels; I mentally wonder the highlights, ponder the implications and meanings.  Dressed, with open door breeze in my face, I leave nighttime escapades for daytime pandemonium.  The only thing that won’t leave me is the last image before the gong sounded.



Tie paper dolls of people into books that may help them.




The Problem with the Peter’s Principle


Is there a harsher lesson than learning

that love is not the same as trust?

This is a fact all the more painful because it is true.


Affection is not the safeguard of sanctity.

I am learning to steel myself to survive ardor

and its blatant disregard for honesty

and still I am caught by surprise

when the slight of hand is revealed.


I think of love as a building material,

most use it as a method of clear-cut

or a fire which extirpates whatever I hold dear.


I can trust people to be who they are

and do what they do,

but if I have to spend my time watching for the ordeal

I have no time for the ecstasy.