Category Archives: writing


Dear Tom Hanks,

i am here to tell you that i am so (imagine SO big gesture) happy with my new Hanx Writer.

how i have missed the feel, the soun—oh, my friend says “you’re kidding, right? sorta like me getting up in the morning and practising my fiddle.” So now I have located and donned my headphones. We’re in a hotel so, you know, every hum and bleep is heard.

Anyway, Tom Hanks, i will use this thing. A lot, probably.

Modernity with depth or something, but mostly i think it returns me to a time of power. Yes, those lazy and bold times when i, Procrastinator, stayed up all night long to write (type) term papers on my manual typewriter—and the miraculous eraseable paper—all wide-eyed and inspired and desperate and unwilling to admit failure, composing and formatting and typing typing typing until finally i found my way to clux it all up into a Conclusion and then…ah! The End. Stack staple submit.

You can see that those remain unforgettable moments. My still sound, albeit somewhat older heart awakens to pound more prominently right now as i briefly return to that place and harried time.

Be assured that it is not to return to the past that impels me to download and utilize your Hanx Writer. No, although i can walk backward as well as anyone, i see little value in living as such, wandering lost in the already explored behind. Nope, Hanx Writer is for the now, for the as yet unwritten future.

It’s for me. And you. It’s for Yes. For the type writer inside.

Sincerely, thank you.

An Unfinished Writer


Last night I watched that

movie about a desperate


so sure of her brilliance

she stalked her hero

believing he could bestow some kind of “poetic serum”

from a vial kept wrapped

in his used napkin.


She screamed a lot

tacked a photo of Sylvia Plath upon her dead wall

and I remember

awakening between scenes thinking

of how badly she had to want it

to scream to rage to stalk

so loudly

to declare with absolute

unretractable intent

her purpose


while time slips beyond

vague edges of pregnant beginnings and surface grazing

I have never thought to

scream or rage

or charge anyone

at all.



Too far

proximity defines



liar pretender coward



clear eyes gazing


fantasy inhalants hallucinations


longing denial relenting

advance of dance

lyrics undressed



wonder star dreams


sidewalk stomp lament


sighing earth fire


sparring rest compete


recall single lines


strings with moonface


hand jive juvenile

shielding hearts

competitive minds


joy laughter spring water


consensus ad idem

you there

taking my time.



Where are you?

I dreamed of another’s face

streamed silk white hair

someone else’s ancestor

in place of mine.


Where is your story?

I cannot locate you

in the rubble recordings

vanished or taken

by time and careless wind.


My face is singular here

an orphan among features

drawn by one hand.


While I long for a view

of the profile woven

between deep in gritty

stone silent walls.