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The desert doesn’t care about your plans. This was the first lesson Jack Write learned when he traded his graduate thesis on Kierkegaard’s concept of despair for a tool belt and a 1998 Ford F-150 with questionable AC. The second lesson: heat warps everything—glass, metal, morals. Palm Springs at 3:17 PM was a study in
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1. WritingThe act of pressing words onto a page is akin to listening to one’s own pulse. It is confession without penance, conversation without interruption. Sometimes the words echo back, sometimes they dissolve into silence—but the page never judges, only receives. A therapist who never bills by the hour. 2. ReadingBooks are the only form
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You struck the match—and blew. A stewof me and you,left simmeringin not enough. I was the wick,the flicker,the bustbeneath your breath. Insecurity—your favorite weapon.Everything you wrong,even the way I hung,wrongly. Painfully penetrative,you split meopen barely wide—just enoughto feel less. A ghost now,residing in your periphery.I smile.(An imaginary mend.) “It’s got to be okay,” they say.So
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O Lord, I’ve chased my own salvation,And stumbled in my pride.I paint a smile to hide my pain,And turn from hands stretched wide. My heart aches for Your healing touch,A salve to mend this tear.Let this wound fade, its scar grow faint,Yet trembling, I draw near. Must I bare my soul’s deep shame,And name what
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the day endedlong before the clock admitted it. I sit here now,gathering my thoughtslike dirty laundry—this stained journal,this dim bulb’s piss-yellow light,this bottlethat doesn’t judgehow many timesI pour it. there are dayswhen no familiar facebreaks the monotony—no voice that saysI know youand means it. oh, I’ve got people—somewhere.a sister in Phoenix,a friend in Denver,ghosts who
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The phone convulsedlike a dying cockroach—“KYLE” flashing(or was it “KILL”?hard to tell afterthat second glassof cheap Cabernet). I was busywith Doctor Zhivago—page 52—pronouncing it Chivagothe way my mother didwhen she’d play that warpedsoundtrack record,back when I was a kidsprawled on shag carpet,nose two inchesfrom the speaker fabric,studying Julie Christie’s faceon the album coverlike it held
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“Failures” The floor was litteredwith the pamphlets of his life—grease-stained,nicotine-yellowed,some with rust-colored pagesthat might’ve been bloodor last Tuesday’s spaghetti. He knew them allby heart: The Novella of Near-MissesBrochures of Bad Decisionsthat fat volumeRegrets: Collector’s Edition But the one he keptin his back pocket,worn soft as old money,was called Failures. Negative title.Positive readership. He could quote
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she was a fleshing gal,okay—Ruebeneque,but I never met a RuebenI didn’t eat. she was different.her Sav-on mascara caked heavyon her upper left eyelid,open just a touch widerthan the right. her lip trembledwhen she asked me the time.“half past ate,” I said.she smiled like she understood.I looked down—respect, or maybe shame. she sat next to me.
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From a Rust Belt Worker to the President Sir—do you play chess?Ever checkmate a Russian?(I hear they’re good.)Or that young kid Fischerin some pre-arrangedElon-made Grok stew? Was Magnus tough?Did you unbox himlike flat-pack furniture—extra screws left over?(I know IKEA’s Swedish,but you get my meaning.) Did Big Blue foldwhen you played “bigly”?Your Cupertino pals—they set the
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The dashboard clock read 6:38 when I pulled into the gravel lot. Eight minutes late – early by my standards, when considering Luna’s habitual tardiness, but for Luna, this might as well have been standing her up entirely. She leaned against her Honda, arms crossed, one foot tapping. Stein, her 110-pound mastiff mix, sat obediently
“All colors made me happy even grey.” Nabokov, Pale Fire
A German carpenter by day working hard to follow a Jewish carpenter, exploring writing as a creative outlet. Passionate about learning through practice and observation.
BB Grey--musings 