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About gimble

I've never understood why solitary confinement is considered a punishment. My favorite time of year is when vacation forces me to drive long hours on the overnight stretch, all other companions in the car asleep, my thoughts and the dark stretch of white-striped road all to myself. Having said that, I can happily keep busy inside my head, yet am distracted by so much of the larger world that I waste time putting those thoughts generated by those distractions down on cyber-paper. Maybe I want to see if anyone else feels likewise. Though not as bright, sharp or hard as a diamond, I am many faceted - esoteric in my literature, tending toward magic realism - pop-culture vulturish in my take on media - sentimental enough to cry at dog food commercials - and a lover of kitsch, like diners and other holes in the wall of life.

Moved back home

God, stupid parents
How’s work? Boyfriend? Pretend to
care but want me gone.

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The reluctant novelist

Seventy-thousand
words a book–why? Seventeen
syllables enough.

Portland

Couch surfing through Air
BnB, they both turn heads,
young, lofted by dreams.

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Little white lies

Enjoy the city.
Envision the future I
text, wanting her home.

Argument

Afterwards, tissue
paper frail, we try hard not
to tear each other.

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Career change

This is why she can’t
move back East, the cubicle
life too dim, dull, stale.

Out of the woods

We both had bad dreams
but she’s okay, Portland-bound,
scratching poison oak.

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Popcorn

Oh look he says, so
happy to find a snack he
can have for himself.

January thaw

Like skin, snow sags droops
puckers. Tears slide across a
hard crusty surface.

Disappointment

A sink hole opens
in a once serene landscape
and cannot be filled.

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