Tomorrow it’ll be
eighty. Mother Nature is
having hot flashes.
Unseasonable
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Tomorrow it’ll be
eighty. Mother Nature is
having hot flashes.
I’m writing during
the day. Quiet house, others
gone. The muse comes out.
Strawberry syrup,
molasses, rice flour mixed up
make tasty stage blood.
“Playing with Fire” as
Bride of Frankenstein? Perfect
role for Halloween.
She bleeds from her mouth.
Says she feels like vomiting.
Just a blood capsule.
Talk about a clean
slate. My new computer has
no software installed.
After the play they
go out to eat popcorn drink
beer with makeup on.
At my church they price
too high. Refugees, students
leave empty-handed.
People link to me.
Complete strangers think my words
have validity.
For years I’ve been told
“you’re a great writer.” With that
paycheck comes belief.