move my pen


What can I offer?

A warring world where life is bereft of meaning.

Father on an amphetamine-fueled jag.

Mother, a dark figure, a smoke-like wraith moving through the house.

I stare and move my pen to the din of caffeinated voices, a garbled television, a tinkling piano.

The house is old and made out of coquina rock painted pale green.

I’m shoehorned in between them, and perched on the edge of my seat.

A whippoorwill spits an urgent call.

Someone will come in and check for irritation at 9:10.

Overnight the snow will turn to slush, then a sheath of ice.

What I’m Reading:

“The earth is warmer.
The crickets are still singing,
rehearsing for the last day.”

— Victoria Chang / “To the Hand”

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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