My own cliché

Somebody once told me that the last people who were fair game for being badmouthed were those of us who are not morning people. I work best at night, and now that my son is old enough to drive himself to school (hey, he says he goes there), I don’t have to be up at Continue reading My own cliché


O littleblood, hiding from the mountains in the mountains Wounded by stars and leaking shadow Eating the medicinal earth. O littleblood, little boneless little skinless Ploughing with a linnet’s carcase Reaping the wind and threshing the stones. O littleblood, drumming in a cow’s skull Dancing with a gnat’s feet With an elephant’s nose with a Continue reading Littleblood