I post a bit of everything, poetry, ramblings, short fiction, novel sections, in my blog, An Arguable Truth, easily arguably, too much. I keep up with the Journal-Writing page to aggregate and find a place for pieces as I shed them from the archive. It’s also a neat space to post older work, bits of novels, short fiction, ancient journal entries, scribbles from the margins of wire spiraled college notebooks, anything really. I do this because A I enjoy the work, I love each and every form of stories. And B, well, nothings coming to me. Thanks for reading!
My mom says I love you with her hands. She spells it out for us. With her smile. With her eyes. My mom doesn’t say anything unless she believes it is true. Mom walks out of her room in pajamas at nine thirty on Sunday morning we all know what it means. Like a brim…
Home doesn’t really exist for men like me. Too many nights wrapped up tight in backpacks. Too fond of the percussive collaboration between a walking stick and my two let loose feet
against an angsty planet. I’m wasted. I’ve wasted every bit of attachment potential on the people who I love. The animals and the living things I need.
Have become home.