027. the sky bleeds electricity

026. more summer storms

025. storms over stone

024. stone shift

023. yard days

022. grave

021. incense/d

020. the writing is anywhere but the wall

019. waiting in line

018. nature & neon

017. the old & the new

the writing is on the wall here, although hardly literally. the old was pushed out, but the tables are turning, slowly, slowly, so that the tide of development leaves some pockets of old in this river city.

016. tiles

015. found poem

dying

light dandelion

wine makers, a small

town in Germany, the

fallen.

blade

014. blue end

013. once wrong

012. stick moon

011. wrong moon

010. once blue

009. blue stick

008. moon end

007. to/n/ight

006. d/r/own

005.5 ninety five to go

I miss writing, today. It has been gone for quite a while... There are no characters in my head clamouring for attention, no stories to be told, no quickness/neatness of phrase dying to get out of that holding cell.

I am - searching for an alternative, less clichéd phrase than - rusty. Like an unpractised swimmer, I know the water is for slicing through, but I swallow a mouthful of chlorine and it goes up my nose when I reach an arm forward, and the effortless elegance of line, movement escapes me, and I have to reach a foot down to feel the sleek tiles under my luminously glowing foot.

I am creating once more, throwing pictures in the air, and snip snip snip, scissor blades flashing, a new shape appears. Words sneak into the images, through the snowflake holes, but as yet, they make no sense. Almost, I feel energetic enough to go back to the beginning of the project and sprinkle magic almost sense words together - sense-tences? But the fear of precedents stops me, fearful that once let loose, the few remaining words I have will scatter under the gaze of a kittihawk; I will be left as a pigeon, fat and cooing, perfectly congenial but with nothing to say. Or is that not better than having words like fleas under your feathers?

005. pai/red

004. t/aint