where the writers are
Like Peace
5 7 09 Tommi NYC and after 007.jpg


November 24





Peace, like an elephant on my chest; I can’t breathe but at least we are not fighting.  The rigid air hangs like sheets on the line, stiff but dry.  Plastered smiles and short salutations get us through until bedtime, but what we can hold in standing up pours out lying down.  Tender feelings are compressed and come out only as water.  Anger bubbles and brews.  Disappointment lives down deep and sours the milk of love.  There are things worse than cross words.  Moldering, festering, frozen words pound spikes in a relationship fraught with apprehension.  The truth is I would let these pent-up things out, but I don’t trust you and I don’t trust me.



See through time.



How I’ve come upon the World.



My first exposure to Bogart

was as the man who was after Bugs Bunny,

and Lauren Bacall was only referred to as Baby.


I only ever heard Kaw Liga because

Stephen King referenced it too often

and I had to go have a listen.


I come through the back door on so much of the world

and it has served me rather well.

Yes, I often feel ignorant,

but at least the knowledge never sees me coming

and I get the drop on it.


There is a quality to not having been spoon-fed,

that keeps me sharp and allows for depth.

The universe sends me clues and I go investigate.


It cuts down on the agendaed learning of the social norms

and cuts me a wide swath beyond the common path.

There are times when conformity is key;

then again it’s a sweet thing to have a choice.