My love for fiction has been growing for the last 45 years. Everyone can escape in a good fiction book. Join me want you, visit www.fictionviews.com. Thanks!
If you've ever heard Bob Dylan's song Desolation Row , you've heard these lines. they're spoonfeeding casanova to get him to feel more assured then they'll kill him with self-confidence and poison him with words. That last last line. . . poison him with words, is the inspiration for a posting I wrote on If the Walls Could Talk called: How to Murder a Poet. . . Here is a link to that short post . The way you murder a poet, I think, is to poison him with words. I went a wrote a book with that... Read Full Story
later today, I have to go on a business trip with my coworker, marcia and her boss, elizabeh. tha's correc', no t in elizabeh. marcia once said that working with elizabeh, who is a very deliberate thinker, in love with the unfortunate prison of her own voice (and this describes her to a 't') working with elizabeh, is like working with a narcissist at a mirror factory. Read Full Story
that night, when i wanted to tell you that the dream was so real that I could almost hear our glasses clinking, midair. 'wine glasses or eyeglasses?' you'd ask, and my heart would be awake, awakened by the sparks of our glasses, midair, clinking and the sound of your voice, that night when i wanted to tell you that the dream was so real. but i never did. Read Full Story
'hi,' she said. it was a grey day and we'd listened to an inanely overlong, decadently sober lecture on who the hell remembers what. she said, 'you know you don't need a weatherman to know when you're barking up the wrong tree.' Read Full Story
i think that i shall never see, a poem lovely as your knee. none half as luscious as your thigh, nor near as endearing as your sigh no verse that compares to your smile, but i just got a new pen , so give me awhile. * the inspiration for this is from the poet Joyce Kilmer , and of course, my wife. Read Full Story
Last Sunday, we brought our son Bobby away for three weeks at Camp Malloy in the Berkshire Hills of Connecticut which is about seventy-five miles from our home. This afternoon as I was driving Jilly home from the pool, my cell phone rang. It almost never rings. I mean n.e.v.e.r. Unrecognized number from an unfamiliar area-code. "Hello, is this Mr. Whitton-Williams?" said the heavily accented voice. "Yes." "This is Steffan, head counselor of junior boys at Camp Malloy." Sometimes I think I am... Read Full Story
14 - when i saw your lips fade into a brokenhearted quiver i believed both of us might have sailed to the open sea without anchors. might have sailed to the sea - wishing. am i a fool? i think wishing makes it so. Read Full Story
13 - to think i felt the deafest of nothing this image, an abstract photograph, is called 'the deafest of nothing.' I hope you like it. Read Full Story
