What can YOU say in six sentences?
I wrote a letter to the manager of a strip club, saying nice things about one of the girls, a kind of commendation I never imagined writing.
Yesterday, I rode three miles with an Apache named Frankie.
I also picked up two boxes from Kinkos, bought pickled herring and birdseed, ate a ham and cheese sandwich with chemical-tasting cheese, and got my red pen ready to attack the novels, one in each box, no agent or publishing house in sight.
A baby mouse came and sat on my…Continue
I love the smell of my own sweat, especially when mixed with horse and going on five days with no shower, love the smell of rain acomin' in the desert, the clover blooming in the creeks, a meal in the crock pot when I am tired, beer on his breath, homemade tortillas, bacon and coffee saying good morning, freshly turned earthworm, wild roses, libraries and bookstores.
I love the taste of Black Velvet on ice, tomatoes warm from the garden, white sauce, salt, caviar, goat cheese, fried…Continue
The metaphors are rampant as I move through my early summer, as the days warm up to the 90s, as the water fades down into the sand, as the garden lushes through the afternoons.
I put on old clothes and gather my tools, mainly a stiff wire brush to knock off the bird poop, a can of Regal Red, a mitt that starts out light as air and gets heavier with each dip.
The more paint on the mitt, the easier the job, the faster I can run my hand down the pipe, the more dramatic the…Continue
My hands smell like baby horse because she came to the fence to visit when I went on walk-about, my brain full of Part Two of the novel, a chapter called "Felony in his Pocket."
My breath smells like cheap beer because I carried one out with me and shared it with you.
My facebook and my website are chock full of reviews of a book I wrote five years ago, and the sun isn't as hot as it was at 3pm.
I don't have a plan for dinner tonight, but we could always have salmon from…Continue
If true art and poetry are irreproducible,
above and beyond formula,
then the tree is art,
is a poem.
When it is old,
grown large and scarred with years,
a collage of trimmed stumps,
even new growth,
I see its poem.
Its resonance is in its
but not empty.
Its meter is in chipmunks
up down sideways,
enough of them to make me…Continue
She always noticed it in other women, especially young ones, and sometimes in older ones who must have once been those girls to whom summer and tank tops and beach colors came naturally.
She always tried too hard, used hair spray, washed off her eye makeup at night, made sure her shoes matched her outfit, wondered how those women were able to let one tendril escape from the updo, and who choses which tendril?
Deep in her dreams were hippy chicks in flowing…Continue
I am here... still breathing... still passionate and enthusiastic and a little bit crazy and missing everyone at 6S quite a lot.
How do I tell you about it all, about the journey, about the egg I found under a prickly pear while going around a border fence 24 miles from the nearest pavement, about sleeping on my saddle pad with my saddle for a windbreak, my hydration pack for a pillow, between the earth and sky, between our horses and the little group of cows that spent the winter…Continue