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The Writing Lifeexpand_moreHis thoughts are never far from the erotic as he roams around Dublin.
Amusement is one thing; enjoyment of art is another.
In the rooms you picked up what you liked, like shells on a beach.
Strange then, strange now, that language wants to be alone with me.
Where my mom was wasn’t never far from the Myrtle Beach Days Inn.
There was a shout, then a shot fired. I pressed the shutter again and again.
My brother stealing all the lightbulbs, my parents live without light.
We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls.
Everyone has something lodged and jittering inside them.
Neither fame nor wealth could provide consolation for life’s brevity.
My first true love was Underwood, my mother’s typewriter.
If he could not evade a serious question by a joke, he bolted.
This is a novel that contains more than its actuarial share of falls.
