What's not new?

Working on sketches for new paintings but have nothing really to show yet.  All I can tell you is that it involves SUPER YACHTS.  These are not your daddy's yachts, no sir.  Your dad didn't have a helicopter, or another tiny yacht that fits inside the super yacht which we are discussing now.  Anyway...

Dug into my digital archives and dusted off some older stories.  These words are from a story called The Expert.

As he approached city hall, with its dull fountains and its schoolroom lighting, Parker saw a young woman in a nice looking green suit with pants that pinched between her thighs, and he knew in order to have had that life he would had to have a wife.  And to have had a wife he would had to have been an expert in women.   

And he thought, to be married now he would have had to been able to say things that seemed so logical but for some reason, he threw his rages against 

at the time.  

He

 fought tooth and nail for every last dreg of credibility, when the trough had already been licked clean.  

P

arker had thrown himself into the role of a lover then found himself suddenly, rather unremar

kably, abandoned.  Left to never love again.  Not for real.  Because he didn’t know what love was.  He felt love for every soft faced woman he saw.  As that young woman passed he felt the twinge in his gut and wanted to ask her all about her day, though he didn't care what she had to say

Cloudy these daze...

There new music up on soundcloud! The songs I am putting together are part of an album called UNLUCKY.  The new song has the same name.

Here's some text from a new story:

Walking underneath the stars to where his car was parked just outside the circle of light cast from a weak street lamp, Nathan had that tightness in his abdomen that signified dread, but his head was light and he smiled a hazy smile and gaped up happily at the moon.  The houses were dark.  He wondered if the neighbors were maybe on to him.  Maybe they knew he was coming out here and getting stoned, then driving the ten miles of highway home every few weeks or so.  Drifting alone out of the center lane.  Letting the lights off little reflectors in the road way mark the shapes of the night upon his consciousness.  He sung.  He listened tenderly to the sounds of sometimes music, sometimes the beat of the road on the tires.  But he was always somewhat aware that what he was doing was wrong, even though he had never attempted to change the behavior.  He got to the car and unlocked the door as casually as he thought how.  As he fumbled with his keys he tried to imagine himself sober, the way he might walk down a street and open a car door.  He tried to think whether that natural grace was possible.