--STRANGE THING, LOOKED JUST LIKE YOU…

 …It’s your history, so you might as well use it.

…Do you know anyone who doesn’t have any insecurities?

…Today’s my mom’s birthday.  She would have been 88.  Lately she hasn’t been haunting me as much, but then I haven’t been writing much lately.

…Yeah, I still try and block that, the picture of you.

  

…These little guys showed up this morning.  A few yards out on the lake in front of them were two fishermen standing up on a boat.  The deer didn’t seem to mind at all.

…Just driving forever, going on these journeys, full of faith in God and the world, that’s what’s kind of got me through it all.

…People spend a lot of time focusing on beauty, but ugly is more interesting in a lot of ways, and if you look very closely at what other people find ugly you’ll eventually see it’s not ugly whatsoever.

…Repetitive motion can take your mind of things, but eventually you’re going to be tuckered out.

…Shoveling takes you mind off things, unless you are very troubled, then no amount of shoveling will do.

…If you substitute the word happiness for sadness, nothing changes.

…Most things, I have noticed, are not what they seem on the surface, and I guess that okay if you’re ready for some surprises.  

…It’s true there was a sheet of glass between us.  Some might call it a window.  Some might call it sand.  Some might say it was already broken when we found it.

…While I was sleeping, God broke in and stole all my dirty laundry.  Can you imagine?  I mean, who would do such a thing?

…Some of the things you want so badly in life can eventually turn into the sadness of play money.

…There are clouds who think they are buffalo and clouds who think they’re the world’s largest down comforter.  There are soothsayer clouds with the perfect answer to your nagging question if you would only raise your eyes and notice.

…Some sadness, as with joy, is irreplaceable.  It’s just that way.  No need to keep trying so hard to make it differently.

...Forgive me, I usually have to put my thoughts into words, and even then, well…

…Sometimes it’s the simple sight of seeing a flower that can make me happy.

…Blue sadness is that which you hope to forget, but cannot.

…“I never meant to hurt you.”  I thought that was an interesting thing to say.

…Well, that’s how it is, time moves and you either move with it, or don’t.

…It’s kind of funny, on the inside I’m trying to be a man, but I’m really just a little child.  

…Genius flourishes everywhere, but there will always be people who believe otherwise.

…It’s a long lane that has no turning.

…Having to swallow when your throat is completely closed is a problem.

…Talk about “Pitch yourself?”  I’m still alive somehow.

—I'VE GOT A SONG THAT WILL NEVER DIE

…I hope you have a fantastic weekend, filled with lots of love and laughter.

…In about an hour, I’m going to be on a podcast reading and talking about my story, “Haiku On Skin” which appeared in the eleventh issue of the print journal F(r)iction (In that issue is Lydia Davis!!! Kwame Dawes!!! and somehow, little ‘ol me.)

…F(r)iction also asked me to be the guest judge for their most recent story contest and I picked the winner last night.  Wish I could share it with you, but it’s still confidential.

                               

                                             Haiku on Skin

         She wants it to be yesterday, last year, the night of their honeymoon, with the taste of nectarines dripping on his lips, the night outside their hotel window revealing a shy, gunmetal gray moon.  He had been as gentle as she’d guessed he would be, boyish almost in the furtive way his hands roamed her skin, drawing out swaths of goose flesh, making up haikus on the spot, writing the words across her ribs and belly.

         The morning after, they wanted to try the French place for breakfast but once there he realized he’d forgotten his wallet.  Back at their room, he found the door cracked open and thought it might be Housekeeping.  When he called out, “Hello,” the thieves rushed him from behind and after several frantic moments of scuffling, her husband was flung from the window.

         Now, on their one year anniversary, she brings in a bowl of nectarine slices, their sweet scent enveloping the room.

         He couldn’t remember anything prior to the fall, not the night before, not even that she’s his wife.  Memories are something he can’t make now and she’s learned to work around that, to focus on the essence of him, the man she fell in love with and still loves to her core.

Getting into bed, she says, “Scoot over a little.  Come closer.”

         “Why?” he asks.

         She bites off a chunk of nectarine and dabs it across his lips.

         “What are you doing?”

         Naked flat-backed on the mattress, she takes his hand and splays his fingers apart. 

“Write a haiku on my skin,” she says.

“I can’t write a haiku.  Poetry isn’t my thing.” 

His eyes are dull gray dimes, but she’s not ready to give up.

“It’s easy, just three short lines,” she says.

“This is crazy.”

“Come on.  Try,” she says, leading his fingers toward her flesh.  “I’ll help.”

At the touch of her skin, his eyes widen—and in them she swears she can make out a flicker of recognition, like the moon momentarily coming out from behind a passing cloud.