REVIEW: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 1

I sat, rapt, for nearly two and a half hours, despite the lack of sleep and the late hour. There was certainly no Episode 1 Effect here! There were no ‘groan’ moments, and only a handful of ‘mistakes’ that stood out to me.

One of the things that bugs me the most is the fact that the Burrow is intact, after it was so pointedly destroyed in the sixth movie. Why make that (at least somewhat) controversial decision to change that movie significantly, only to have it ignored, visually and as a plot point, in the next? Furthermore, Scrimgour calls the Weasley home ‘the BurrowS’. That’s a glaring error!

There’s no handshake between Dudley and Harry, but their relationship was far less developed in the movies than it was in the books.

Emma Watson is great! She is acting with more than her eyebrows. Her opening scene was perhaps a little too subtle, as was Snape’s eye-to-eye with the Muggle Studies teacher at Malfoy Manor. Perhaps that will change after a second viewing, but my initial reaction was a little disappointment.

Rupert Grint is a revelation! He had not acted too much in the previous films, but you can see here that he actually CAN! The complaint I’ve had before about his role was the speedy delivery of lines, which, when blurred by the accent, would border on gobbledygook. (The real world reference, not the goblin language!) In this one, there are a couple deliveries that are hasty, but for the most part his lines are clear and heartfelt.

The special effects are wondrous! The animation of the tale of the Three Brothers would make the suits at Pixar jealous, it is so uniquely rendered! The THING that comes out of the locket is grotesque and beautiful at the same time. Dobby interacts with Harry seamlessly, especially in his final scene!

This movie is as close to the book as any of the movies, and that is clearly due to the decision to split it into two movies. It allows for character development, added humor, and extended views of set pieces and landscapes that make the tone of this movie very different from the more recent movies in the series. The Goblet of Fire was terribly cramped, and my least favorite of all the movies. The story structure of The Order of the Phoenix was a positive change from the book; the end battle was perhaps the best framed sequence of the entire series. The Half-Blood Prince was rushed and incongruously dark. I don’t know if splitting these movies would have made them any better, but it certainly works for the finale, which has so much significant material for so many characters. Scenes are allowed to linger, giving them weight and depth. There is a bit more focus on the characters, allowing the viewer to see more of the growth and change that is so well developed by Rowling over the seven books.

This was an event movie, and it was an exciting event that our children will remember through the years. There were laughs and tears, anticipation and expectations. This movie was everything I wanted it to be.

REVIEW: the Crystal City. The Tales of Alvin Maker, Book 6

The Crystal City
Book 6 of the Tales of Alvin Maker
By Orson Scott Card
Book on CD Read by Card, Stefan Rudnick and Gabrielle Decuir, among others.

I found this book to be a little more engaging that the last one, which I wanted to be over long before it was. The narrative was new and different, while still meandering somewhat, which is part of the charm of this series. The action was fairly constant, with a lot less exposition (in the form of court trials) and constant, if slow, change in the characters and the plot. With the location of the Crystal City finally established, the slaves (almost) free, and Alvin’s son born (and saved), it seems like they accomplished something in this volume.

Up to this point in this world’s history, it has very much resembled the expansion of America in the 1800s. With the events in these stories, however, the reader begins to see something very different taking shape. The power of knacks and Makers has begun to shape the new world into something very different from what we know in our reality. The establishment of Furrow Spring County, the future location of the Crystal City, promises major differences in a reality where magic is real. Alvin’s acknowledgment of the different but equally important Song of machines (the sound and feel of something’s magic) portends a more holistic Industrial Revolution, which will allow mankind to live in peace with nature AND technology. The potential for stories in that future reality is awesome, which makes it all the more disappointing that Card has not yet finished this series.

Again, I say, isn’t the Ender series all played out?!

REVIEW: Stephen King’s the Dark Tower Book 5, Battle of Jericho Hill

I’ve been looking forward to reading this for quite some time, as noted in my review of book 4, the Long Road home. We would finally learn the truth about the infamous battle where Roland lost all of his cribmates – his first ka-tet – and how he was the only one to survive the slaughter.

Like everything so eagerly anticipated, though, it was over far too quickly and failed, ultimately, as the climax to this stage of the quest for the Tower. The taking of Sheemie felt a little perfunctory, and the death of Aileen (granted, not an original King character anyway) felt glossed over. The death of Alain was also disappointing. ANOTHER friend shot by Roland? Come on…

I still love the art - it’s grandiose and striking, despite the lack of detail. The broad strokes work in this format, but the marvelous detail is what makes King such an amazing story teller.

The depiction of the battle itself was disappointing; very little detail, graphically or literally. Many of the frames depicted one side shooting, and the next showed the enemy shooting, which created a staccato pacing that didn’t sit well with me. I love the depiction of Farson, the Good Man – glowing eyes and all – and Marten is suitably oily.

Ultimately, it was a rather readable comic, with beautiful images and less-than-stellar words.

Some really old stuff, discovered in the move.

         

"Alas, alas!  'Tis true, my friends!"

     Ogruff weeped and wailed aloud,

"My goodly father's met his end!"

     Crying rain, his face a cloud,

the cleric sat down next to us.

     Trying, then, to comfort him,

we gathered close to listen up

     as he told his story grim.

"I'd come back to the plantation,

     just to visit dad again;

I found him near the serf station,

     moaning deep, in grievous pain."

"He had just one word left to say;

     I could barely make it out.

As he began to fade away,

     'Olek,' then his life went out."

Our friend stopped there, to catch his breath;

     E'vay and Verkat wept too;

The rest of us just thought of death.

     Ogruff tried to continue.

He had to dry his eyes and cheeks,

     yet he did, and though it hurt,

he spoke.  "My friends, it could take weeks,

     but I'll find the killer's shirt."

"Now, if you don't decide to aid,

     you must know I'll understand.

So let me know now, please," he said.

     All of us did raise our hands.

His pride and grief were mixed as one,

     with deep anger boiled in.

He thanked us all, and had begun

     planning to revenge this sin.

The only clue, his dad's last word,

     led us to the Smuggler's Port.

A haven for both crime and curd,

     Olek was their judge and court.

We had to get there right away;

     With the next day's morning sun

our party set out on its way;

     The adventure had begun.

Our horses, eight, were young and strong,

     good to ride both fast and hard.

To Krelton's edge did not take long.

     Domeresti border guards

gave Ogruff problems as we left.

     Serfs were not transportable,

and though he was a slave bereft,

     his tattoo was visible.

Quick thinking by our ranger friends,

     Nosferatu and Verkat,

allowed us passage in the end;

     Krelton towards us tipped its hat.

We crossed into the Neutral State,

     riding hard the plains of Rahn;

The sun was setting, falling late,

     Olek on the horizon.

We soon could see the Town of Sins,

     would be there near mid of night.

"We want the second best of inns!"

     Verkat yelled out towards the light.

REVIEW: Prentice Alvin

Prentice Alvin
By Orson Scott Card
Book on Tape Read by Card, Stefan Rudnick and Gabrielle Decuir

The reading here is an interesting departure from my usual King stuff, read by the gruff, sandy Frank Muller . This is read by Card himself and two others, representing the two main points of view in the book – Alvin’s and Peggy’s. Neither is a spectacular reader, though both are capable. Card’s performance is utilitarian though apposite, with a curious not-quite-southern drawl that grew to represent the Mormon tradition echoed in Alvin’s tale.
The narrative is an entertaining mix of macro- and micro-story. It spans some 8 years of Alvin’s apprenticeship, yet the details of intervening years are few and far between. On one hand, it feels rushed, but at the same time it feels appropriately paced. This is obviously a setup story; much like the time spans in the story itself, it designed as the in between years of a much larger story, which I am eager to get to.
The previous book is all but ignored in this story. Alvin mentions his time with the Prophet only once or twice, and the events of Red Prophet seem to have little effect on Alvin’s apprenticeship.
I really enjoy Card’s voice – I mean to say his narrative voice! He handles the raw speech of the unrefined folk of the frontier with consistency and aplomb. It feels and sounds natural.
I sure hope he gets around to book 7 in this series. Isn’t the Ender stuff all played out already!?

REVIEW: Red Prophet

Red Prophet
By Orson Scott Card
Graphic novel by Brown, Buchemi, and Montenegro

The art here is serviceable, but nothing spectacular. At times it is difficult to tell characters apart, especially Alvin and his brother Measure, when they were captured by the reds.
With the active hand of Card, the narrative is a successful adaptation. It is somewhat wordy, something less than desirable in a graphic novel I think, but necessarily so to capture the spirit of the story.
Overall, it is an enjoyable adaptation, and a quick way to re-experience the story in order to get to the books in the series that I haven’t read yet.
I wish I had more to say, but life is creeping in. I’ve already finished the next book (on tape) before finishing this review!

UPDATE

Since I have been working for the Census, it has been difficult to keep a schedule, and thus difficult to remain clear-headed enough to put anything down. I am keeping track of the time I owe, and I have all intentions of getting back to it. The Census work should be done in around 2 weeks, so expect something then.

Thanks.

REVIEW: Cell

Cell
by Stephen King
Read by Campbell Scott

At first I thought that a strong reader might not be needed for this book, but as it dragged on, and he droned on, it was apparent that the reader affected my experience on the whole. He droned, as I said, with a nasally flat intonation, which was infrequently interrupted by overdubs that sounded like someone else. There is little differentiation between characters, and the enunciation leaves a lot to be desired. Although an accomplished actor, seen recently on TV in Damages, Mr. Scott is not a real strong voice in this work.
Though King never uses the word zombie, this story would probably make a good zombie movie. The ending would have to be changed for the movie masses, but the cell-phone-as-WMD idea is certainly timely. Endings are an apparent weakness of King’s. He often claims that the story tells itself, that he is just the scribe, but it seems to me that NOT using the pop culture word of the day is a distinct choice.
The characters are authentic; certainly a strength of King’s, but something is still missing. The narrative always seems to be on the verge of exploding into either action or social commentary, but never quite succeeds at either. The end result is an uncertain series of scenes with very little resolution. Perhaps that was King’s intent, but it is ultimately unsatisfying.

'Tween the past and the future

My wife and I went to high school together, one final time.  We attended the Woodward High School Sock Hop, AKA checkouttheoldbuildingonelasttime, back on April 16. 

It was great to see so many people there, from so many years.  The history of that school is so much more than just the four years WE went there, or even the six combined years.  It’s mind-boggling to think about how many students have been through those halls.  It makes one feel small and yet infinitely important.   It will be sad to see the building fall. 

We arrived early, for the least of considerations – parking.  The Streicher entrance near the office was unfamiliar to me 22 years ago, but Jen knew it well.  After getting name tags and signing a registry, we wandered toward the trophy cases in the main hallway.  Of course I found the chess trophies right away.  The label on one had fallen off and lay face down, but I knew it was the 2^nd city championship trophy.  We were the only championship team that Woodward had in my 4 years, I believe.  There was also a single chess trophy from 1975, labeled “Runner up - Voreshevsky division”! 

We then made our way up to the 2^nd floor, where we walked through the boy’s gymnasium.  Fits of memory recalled the games in which a waffle ball hit into the balcony stands was a home run, and sitting in lines on the gym floor at the start of freshman year, paralyzingly self-conscious.  From there we sidled into the girl’s gym, where, in search of myself, I had played a lot of basketball with two friends (you know who you are), one of whom would often beat us 2 on 1!

From there we went on to the cafeteria.  While the halls and the school itself seemed pretty much the same size as I remembered (if not a little larger), the lunch room seemed smaller.  Perhaps it was the arrangement of tables or the added vending machines near the kitchen.   I have few specific memories of the lunch room, most likely because I sat at the same table all four years, trying to avoid the trouble that often sprouted in the densely populated centers of the room.  Jen and I had a good laugh at the shared memory, from different perspectives, of a certain friend’s ceaseless, asthmatic laugh.

We went on to the library, adjacent to the cafeteria.  As an atypical student, I had spent a fair number of lunch periods in the library, often just reading a book.  Now, my present career path had brought me back.  We chatted with the librarian, with whom Jennifer worked in her stint as a substitute teacher.  The librarian has done a lot of work to maintain the archival collection of yearbooks and student newspapers.  Among the yearbooks on display, I saw the cover of one that looked vaguely familiar, but I knew that it was way before my time.  It took a moment, but I soon recalled perusing my aunt and uncle’s Sagas when I was a kid, and a thumb-through quickly confirmed 1981 as my aunt’s senior year!

We eventually found the 3^rd floor corner where I would often hang out with my girlfriend at the time, who would soon enough become my ex-wife.   Although I spent most of my time at Woodward with her, memories of high school do not exactly revolve around you-know-who, save for the punching of a locker outside Mr. Taylor’s on the first floor after a breakup.  

Ah, the fickle nature of recall!  Whether capricious or merely careless, our memories are peculiar entities, sometimes certain, on occasion nebulous, always altered by the now.   Earlier, we couldn’t seem to remember where our lockers had been, which was a comment we had heard from a few people that night.  That took us to recalling our home rooms, which led to trying to remember where certain classrooms were.  Herr Hanna’s was the easiest to find, and I think we found Gantzos’ room, my very first class freshman year.  I remember certain fun-lovers setting pennies at the top of her door, and the helpless contempt on her face when they rained down on her as she rattled the door with her key.  I also found Mrs. Amberg’s room, my final and most influential English teacher.   That door is still labeled “language arts” in the tiny metal art deco sign at the top of the jamb. 

Jen and I wandered around the 3^rd floor then, but the memories there were more muddled.  I had wanted to find Mr. McMurray’s room, but it was impossible to differentiate, despite significant quiz bowl time there!  We easily found the science triad – Attie, Duvendack and Baldwin - and around the corner Mr. C’s math classroom. 

Soon after we had first arrived, I had seen Mr. Cieslewski, though I would not have recognized him if someone else hadn’t been greeting him.  He was, of course, much older, yet far thinner, than in junior year geometry.  Later, we greeted Mr. Duvendack in his great, old sweater.  He hasn’t changed much, except for his speed perhaps.  Mr. Wilusz, on the other hand, looks EXACTLY the same as he did more than 20 years ago, right down to the same black and white saddle shoes!    Even my uncle (class of ‘75) remembers him looking pretty much the same.  Uncanny! 

The building itself has not changed a whole lot either.  There is some deterioration, and the concavity of the worn steps deepens every year, but the halls have the same paint, the same maroon tile floors.  The interior paint is still the same in many of the classrooms, and they still have the same old wooden cupboards.  One of the oddest things that stood out was the trash cans – the large square bins with flat blue tops like a steel umbrella.  Not something one thinks about when one recalls high school years, but mercurial memory made me notice the same trash cans that have been there for at least 25 years!

Later in the evening, we met up with my uncle (‘75) and aunt (‘81) and then my brother (‘86) and his family.   My uncle pointed out the new plastic seats in the auditorium – which had been there since at least ‘79!  The passing of ten years seemed to be more significant back then.  My brother, though, was kind of connected to the last vestiges of that dissimilar decade.   When he was a freshman in ‘82, there were seniors who had attended in the 70s!  I asked him about the donkey basketball game; though ultimately sad, the story feels legendary, like the passing of an era.  In ’83 or ’82, one of the teachers died of a heart attack during what would ultimately be the final donkey basketball game ever held at the school.  That game was, in retrospect, the delineator between the troubling 1980s and the far less worrisome 1970s.

My brother then told me another legendary tale.  He pointed out a small speaker hanging from the approximately 12’ ceiling.  He said that after a basketball victory over rival Central Catholic, he and some buddies were whooping it up in the halls.  He was so pumped with adrenaline that he jumped and touched that speaker!  I do remember him dunking a tennis ball back in the day, so the tale is believable, but as we stood under the speaker that night, gazing up and up, it may as well have been a low hanging cloud, or a mile-high jet!

I took some photos that night, and some short videos, but not a lot - I‘m not really sure why, other than not wanting to look foolish.  I guess I was taking it all in.  I was absorbed by the moment – and by the moments that seem so disparate now, so connect-the-dots.  I used to be the kind of person that looked at my yearbooks all the time.  When I had kids (sometime between their ages of 3 and 10), I seemed to forego all that stuff, without intention or awareness.   A lot of memories just went away.  Returning to the school when Jen taught there brought a flood of it back, but it was always a shock to recall something I hadn’t thought about in nearly 20 years!   I’m often surprised at how little I see people from back then.  I’m all around Toledo and Bedford, but I rarely see anyone I knew back then.  Then I wonder - would I even recognize them?  There are people friending me on Facebook that I don’t even remember!  And THEN I wonder, have I changed that much!?   

My own social clumsiness often interferes with reconnection.  I find myself wanting to know what happened to some people, but not quite willing to strike up a conversation.  I’ve seen one classmate at local pharmacies, but can’t bring myself to say hello - and we ran in the same academic circles.  That’s why Facebook is so easy.  I can say hello and not have to worry about tripping over my faux pas!  I’m still friends with a handful of people from back then, and I guess that’s all that I really want.   The rest is just a strange benign voyeurism. 

So far, so good.

I have just finished 2 hours of writing, which included some catch up from the weekend. Another 2 hours tomorrow and I will be back on schedule. One item posted today and a memoir due tomorrow.

I'm satisfied, thus far.

REJUSTIFY

I stray outside, the moonlit

 breeze

Flutters across

 my pain

The stars,

         so many stars

grab my heart

  and pull but I am

Too anchored

Too leery with bitter (tones) that slip

   unwillingly

The respite is brief

                                                   I know

I want to run, fly

     leave

but I just retrieve the dog

 and return

The bar is gone –

                            Unneeded

The air is recycled

Every day the same

  submission

Every night’s quiet admission

                                  I hate it.

Writing Career ?

I don’t know if I can be a writer. I just turned 40 and I feel like I’m running out of time. More truthfully, I don’t know if I want to be a writer, if I want to make the necessary sacrifices. I’ve always thought that great creative minds had to suffer for their art. I’ve had relatively little suffering in my relatively blessed life, so perhaps I lack that beam of inspiration. Nevertheless, I think I have some valuable insight into the lives of common (read: average) men, and some things that I have written glimmer with potential.

I will give it one more try. One more SERIOUS try.

I can’t let this float forever, though. Therefore, I am going to give myself a deadline. After one full year of seriously attempting to attempt to right, if I am unable to maintain the production schedule or unable to complete anything worthwhile, I will be done.

One hour each day. At least. If I miss a day, I have to make it up in that week.
If this upcoming year feels successful, and I have something solid, I will use the following year to make money with my writing. If I have nothing that can be sold, I will be done with the pursuit of writing as a career.

I have a number of kernels to develop – essay ideas that would be perfect as blog posts. There are some short fiction ideas floating around in my notes, and, as always, the long standing long fiction – both genre and ‘regular.’ Poems may also pop up now and again. D&D writing is also part of it, with the idea of developing characters (and worlds) that stand independent of their gaming origins.

If I can’t do it, I will focus my encouragement on my daughter. An avid reader, her interest in horses has led her to RPG web sites, where she tells interactive stories from horses’ points of view. She has already been more productive than I have in the last year or so. She has potential! Hopefully my own production over the next year can serve as encouragement. I think that what she’s writing now may fit into popular pre-adolescent horse-loving-girls magazines.

My wife is behind me, of course. She has always encouraged and appreciated my creativity. I find that I love her more every day. Seriously.

You, dear Reader, will be my gauge. Your feedback will be as vital as ever in this upcoming evaluation. Thank you. All five of you.


PS: I’m starting today, and this post counts as today’s hour!

*****ATTENTION****

Look to this spot for a major announcement coming very soon.

Thank you.

Carrie

Carrie
Stephen King
Book on Tape, read by Sissy Spacek.

Being King’s first published novel, I was surprised at how familiar the narrative style is. His basic forms and habits have not change, I think, as they continue to be filled with seemingly superfluous details that somehow make each word vitally important to the story.

The conceit of parts of the story being from a book written by a survivor, from the report of the White Commission, investigating the TK phenomenon, and from AP and local news outlets is an interesting way to present the information. I think it would be more effective in the written format, rather than being read aloud, because the reader can SEE the difference in the text and differentiate the source easier. I did not have a copy of the novel while listening, so that is an educated guess.
The graphic imagery –not just the horror bits, but the sex and the thoughts of teenagers – is both distracting and appealing. I continue to wonder if teens, then or now, really thought like that – with the smoking and the sex, and the mean thoughts. This concern is, of course, merely a reflection of my own unusual adolescence and my own children’s current pre-teen status.

Sissy Spacek’s reading is uneven, though she captures Carrie’s voice quite naturally, the slight southern drawl giving the sense of perpetual innocence. When she attempts to make her voice big, it only comes across as loud. Still, the continuity with the movie helps the mind’s eye see the blood-soaked white dress form-fitting over the thin, shuddering body.

I’m about to watch the movie now.

"LOOK SIR! NINJAS!"

Gran Torino

This movie was a bit of a disappointment. I was expecting violence. Instead it was slow paced and poorly acted, with questionable characterization.

The opening funeral scene seems to drag, but it is necessary to setup the absence of the sons in the life of the protagonist. Initially the death of his wife seems to be the cause of his perpetual grumpiness. His grim demeanor runs deeper than that, but this is revealed slowly over the first half of the film. For my taste, there are way too many scenes where the camera is still.

Eastwood chews up the scenery, of course, for good or ill. His mumble-growl is befitting, if at first annoying. Unfortunately, he never shoots anyone! The Asian leads are first-timers. They do admirably, but the fumbles are noticeable, especially in the delivery of angry dialog.

The ‘gooks’ are overly tolerant, even reverent toward the undeserved protagonist. The protagonist is a lifelong grump and racist, and we’re expected to believe that he would sacrifice himself for this Asian family? Even the educated one (cliché?) is unbelievably patient and tolerant of the old bigot. Could he really change the core of his character over the course of one summer? Disingenuous.

The DVD has two special features, which speak on the bond between man and car. This relationship was a minor theme of the movie. Like the movie itself, the DVD feels vaguely disjointed and somehow deficient.

REVIEW: Star Wars: Death Troopers

Star Wars: Death Troopers
By Joe Schreiber

We bought this for Nick for Christmas, because he’s been into zombie movies lately, and has Star Wars in his blood, so to speak. After I promised him I would read it when he was done, he finished it in about a week!

This book is a fun mix of Zombie horror and Star Wars. It is fairly well written, though the ending leaves a lot to be desired. The horror scenes are done well, and there’s decent characterization. There isn’t a lot of detail, though. Nothing about why a handful of people are immune to the virus, very little about how the virus causes the dead to rise, and no mention of the reason for Han and Chewie being on this Imperial prison barge, with the Falcon impounded, merely months before the events in episode IV - and no, they do not escape on the Falcon. This book is more about the zombies, their victims, and their potential victims, to be sure. I enjoyed it for just that – a zombie romp with the crimson tinge of Star Wars.

REVIEW: Insomnia

Insomnia
Stephen King
January-February 2010

I picked this one up because of the connections to the Dark Tower books, of course. According to Book VII, this King novel is the key to understanding the multiverse. I was a little disappointed because the connections were few and far between. The Wiki entries pretty much cover the mentions in entirety! Book VII even changes a couple things mentioned in this novel. According to Insomnia, Patrick Danville was destined to die while saving two men, including Roland. It didn’t happen like that in Book VII.

This was a long book, nearly 800 pages. The first 200 were pure exposition, setting up Ralph and his life in Derry. There was not even a hint of supernaturalism until nearly 1/3 into the book. There are many connections to his other books that take place in and around Derry, especially IT. Still, I like my King books with a little more paranormal, if you please.

That being said, one gets attached to these characters, of course. Ralph Roberts is a likable elderly man, but surprisingly unflawed, or at least not very introspective.

The narrator captures the voice of Ralph very well, without being overpoweringly New England. Eli Wallach is an older actor who appeared in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, among a number of minor film roles. His other characterizations here are passable, but nothing spectacular. I question the choice of the production to not speak aloud the chapters and subchapters, a King staple. It results in book on tape that is not delineated, making it hard in some way to follow along. The weird music and sound effects that are used as transitions between unnamed chapters is stark and sometimes drowns out the narration.

Overall, it was a King experience, so characterization rules the day. I can’t imagine investing the time it would take to actually read this, however. But as I get older, it’s harder to justify investing that kind of time into ANY novel, which is a scary, sad statement.

RSWR (?!) # 15

Japanese tuna ad!

another poem from last fall

Nothing important to say.

Nothing to say, it seems, whenever I set pen to paper.
The words waver on the ledge, teasing
their rescuer.
"Don't get close - I'll jump (off the edge)"
irretrievable forevermore.
Forever, or until the next time
I set the pen.

the blank white jeers - a mean paper mien.

Then something drags me away
progress is glimpsed on the horizon, a shade
but life

over hear

calls out,
a crowd
"help me"
"fix me"
"learn me"
"clean me"
"play me"
"watch me"
"surf me"
"read me"

a new (to you!) poem...

in the depths of Hawkin's mind


the door that's never worked right
slides, sticks, slams.

Separates.

A sad exhiliration
overtakes.
the air is clear
the moon bright
the wind, softly
*Run away,
far away*

One heart pounds
the other weeps
gently, briefly
but the Yard holds tight
- no egress, no mercy
So Toughness comes
dominates Dream,
drags, drops; delineates
the in(t/f)ernal glow.

Go back,
Grab the bar.

It's what you do.

a new poem!

Paper Cuts


eye see a rainbow of construction paper

it can’t cause a poem

the subtlety is too subtle
the importance too small.
eye breathe a little slower
live a little shorter
die a little more

fleeting, fleeing ever faster
adult years outpace childhood
farther from it every
year, every
day, every
heartache

Wonder
is fading, escaping
fleas from a drowning pet

You are mourned
by just one, Truest Friend of mine.




01202010