did you see the dog outside the bar the night we met.? she was tied to the parking meter pole. a huge puppy and all she kept doing was licking my hand. Snowflake. she was huge and white and it was the night of the blizzard. sweet and beautiful Snowflake, and then gone. isn't that the way of all beautiful things? but not gone if we hold the moment, it has to be held with the heart. that's the only way....Snowflake dead....COLD
BLOODED MOON
...

My cat child
brings order where there was none.
Let's not talk about the walnut shell of my womb,
empty birthplace of dust.
Let's talk about my cat child, proud with powers, handy with struts.

Now, listen--
I have forgotten all about you.
I've heard that I was in love once, but who knows?
Show me the evidence; I'll yawn elaborately, and my cat child will agree
that such stuff is dull in the extreme.
Dead fish, on the other hand, become more riveting every minute.

You would not have understood my cat child.
At least, that's my foggy instinct about it.
You would have objected to the damage, the **** and the fleas.
The rumor is, cats were royal once,
and I need the reflected glory and the chance to sleep during the day.

Right now, my cat child is away.
She is hungry for mice, songbirds, or someone's leg.
Me, I don't eat anymore, can't recall why I ever did--
I remember nothing, value nothing, aspire to nothing.

But once,
The feel of my mouth closing gently over the curve of your soft lower lip
seemed such an urgent thing,
like warm waves for mermaids,
a place I would do anything to get to.
Yes once,
the sight of your dark hair sent warm honey over my heart,
my belly,
my ***,
and everywhere, my love, from my skin to the stars.

Now, though,
I have forgotten all that.
What were we talking about? I have no idea.
Now there is only the glare of afternoon
and the magnificence of my cat child who has given me nine lives--
none of them worth a ****,
all as dead in the mouth as a finch with a broken neck.

Memories do not vanish.
They fold inward,
like petals closing at dusk,
until what once bloomed
becomes only a seed
buried beneath the soil of time.
At first, they are sharp
a laugh that lights dark rooms,
a voice alive in your bones,
a moment so vivid it feels immortal.
But even stone weathers,
even mountains bow
to the quiet persistence of wind.
Fading begins not with forgetting,
but with distortion...
a face shifting like water,
a voice echoing from far away.
Then one day, you realize
what you’re holding
is no longer truth,
only what time has left behind.
Forgetting is slow erosion.
First the colors fade,
then the weight of the moment,
until even grief grows pale,
like smoke rising from a fire
you no longer recall.
The cruelest part isn’t losing the memory,
but losing yourself inside it.
Because memories are not just events.....
they are who you were
when they happened.
And when they fade,
so does that version of you.
Yet there is mercy in the blur.
A faded memory proves
you once touched something too vast to hold.
So when only fragments remain...
a flicker of laughter,
a shadow of a face..
hold them gently.
For even when the world forgets,
the heart remembers
in a language time cannot erase. 🫀

I appreciate your concern, and yes,
   I'm still very much alive.

I'm just a father with a full-time job,
   and an allergy to social media

I used to work on this in the wee hours
   and now I use those hours for....
   sleep

Your donations got the app started
   - and I'm so grateful -
But the app isn't ready to share yet.

I will get an app finished.
   I will.
      I will.
         I will.
            "But when?!"

I won't promise anything yet
    but I won't forget either

Sending you all love from
    the real world

4AM-
a boy runs across
the four-lane roadway,

eyes like rare stones,
face burlap-creased dust,
jean shorts, a dolphin backpack
meant for someone smaller.

I track in my car,
take the exit that curves
around an abandoned encampment.

I find cement steps,
but the boy is gone.

Only smoke remains:
a hooded figure curled
in a doorway of a derelict building,
an empty tent split by knife.

The world recedes,
layered, unbroken.

another vision settling
into the mind,
a thick silence I fold
into the others.

There once was a king
Who built a big bonfire
Right in the center
Of his kingdom.

"Higher and higher still!"
The silly king shouted.
And it was done!
He made them all jump to.

Proud, he was, to rule
Over everything
As far as his eye could see.
With his bonfire done

He was ready for the fun.
He called for more fuel.
"More, and more!" he shouted.
And it was done!

Now with all eyes on him
He took a match, gave it a strike,
Then threw it on the wood.
O, what a sight to see it so bright!

And the fire raged on
It began licking at homes,
Buildings, and even people!
It became a conflagration.

"It started before we knew it.
What was happening to us?"
Everyone began saying, shocked.
And yet the signs were all there.

Too much wood on the pile,
Too much fuel for the fire,
And an out-of-control ego
Who lost all control!

In the end, it all burned down.
And the moral of the story is:
When rulers burn the kingdom down
The king will rule over nothing but

Ashes.

When you laugh

It is waking at night
Beneath a waterfall

Seeing clear through
The veil

To a multitude of stars