JamesPope

How much gin could a cat even drink? We'll see: Your turn You magnificent fat bastard The drunk cat lost, and so I slowly sip my gin. This is life, my friend

Even though the loft was roomy, its high ceilings and large windows providing more freedom than any of the cramped rooms below, it nonetheless felt like a cage, albeit, one of Orlando's own construction. Now, as the first rays of light lanced in through the crack between his curtains, they fell harshly over the body that lay sleeping restlessly in the comfortable bed, dividing its form with a harsh contrast of light and shadow. Orlando crept back inside, the door swinging loose on its hinges as he precariously balanced his payload of espressos and bannocks wedges from Bon's deli down the street and slid them onto the rough surfaced wood of t

To know where you are going: Its where you look Or how. To understand where you are going: You must realize your place Is also your motion. To see where you are going: What you look at Is also what you look like. To get where you are going the lesson of Electron, Invisible things get in the way. Learn to be two places at once Or not there at all.

This is not love. You showed me that like a haiku with incorrect syllables

Gnats cloud above the pines in dark nests that hang over the railroad tracks by the river Bullfrogs creak and chortle in low harmonies, crickets and cicadas provide the tune Sweat tracks and stains on limp black rumpled t-shirts hang over wire frame young boys Thin wisps of long fishing poles lean lazily on freckled tan shoulders While laughter musics the air with the distant whistles of the diesel trains Mothers voices stretch across the woods Seven white sneakers turn dark with deep red mud as boys run off for home

This sound, picked up on digital recorder. My fingertip tracing angels singing Hosannas upon the back of your hand. Let my thumb solve the riddles of your small hairs. Let me kiss the sweet mint of whiskey evaporating from your skin.

Yes. I was with him, when he died. That's usually the first question people ask of me, and the only one they truly wish me to answer. Oh, some ask what the great man was like, was I scared, did he die in pain, the usual sorts of questions that people might be expected to ask you. But they don't really care of course - Vicar Crist was that sort of fellow, that people did and still do make up their minds about him before they ever have had the opportunity to have met the man. So mostly I nod and tell them, yes, and then simply let them tell me how horrible and brave and stupid and evil the man was, let them announce their pet conspiracy theori