Under The Pink Harlequin Sunglasses Strawberry Dangling

I'd Sit Around Dreaming That The Boys I Saw At Shows Or At Work - The Boys With Silver Earrings And Big Boots - Would Tell Me I Was Beautiful, Take Me Home And Feed Me Thai Food Or Omelets And Undress Me And Make Love To Me All Night With The Palm Trees Whispering Windsongs About A Tortured Gleaming City And The Moonlight Like Flame Melting Our Candle Bodies.

Sometimes She Wore Levi's With White-suede Fringe Sewn Down The Legs And A Feathered Indian Headdress, Sometimes Old Fifties' Taffeta Dresses Covered With Poetry Written In Glitter, Or Dresses Made Of Kids' Sheets Printed With Pink Piglets Or Disney Characters.

Our Stories Can Set Us Free. When We Set Them Free.

Write With Abandon And No Constraints For First Draft. Cut Brutally And Save In Separate Files On Second Draft. Add Conflict; Don't Be Afraid To Make Your Characters Suffer. Read What You Love. Write What You Love. Love.

Dear Angel Juan, You Used To Guard My Sleep Like A Panther Biting Back My Pain With The Edge Of Your Teeth. You Carried Me Into The Dark Dream Jungle, Loping Past The Hungry Vines, Crossing The Shiny Fish-scale River. We Left My Tears Behind In A Chiming Silver Pool. We Left My Sorrow In The Muddy Hollows. When I Woke Up You Were Next To Me, Damp And Matted, Your Eyes Hazy, Trying To Remember The Way I Clung To You, How Far Down We Went. Was The Journey Too Far, Angel Juan? Did We Go Too Far?