COMMUNION

It was a feast
Our bodies

Your blanket
Our table

Our outfits
Placemats on either

Side
And for once

We

Supped from each
Other

For once we
Fell inside

Each other
And drank to

The victory
Of our

Oneness. My chin
Tucked like a

Napkin between your
Breasts, and all I

Can tell you again
Is that I love

Every bite of you
Love to chew

love to bite
nibble and lick

But first we give
Thanks for all this

-dvb 2003

Grapple Them to Thy Soul with Hoops of Steel...

So much for masks. I've reposted both my first and last name on Dashboard (even though bloggins takin' a back seat to my other crazy fictional forays these days)....in the last seven years I've lived in ten (count 'em) different addresses. Moving around all the time has severed many frienships. My hope is that if you stumble upon my blogg CONTACT ME....esp if your name is Mark Feaster, Patrick "the great" Mullowney, Damien Segoiva, Misty Gerber, Brooke from Roanoke (sorry I fogot your new married name)-- "Jungian" Brook Jackson from chicago ( crazy loose-loined wild haired trollop that she is), Kris Weberg, Vanessa Hall ( stale apologies and an overdue european tryst are in jeopardy) the former Harmony Anne Dusek of Spokane, Megan Snow, Staci (yes anastaia it's been over a decade and i still haven't forgotten) Blake, Jim McGarth, Courtney from harrisburg (shit--what's your last name girl---that sunrise over Chespeake Bay on Bloomsday was simply unreal)...Matt Brown of Dallas, of course, it's been a long ass time, and yer' hospitality what--eight years ago--changed my life...Jana solomon..yeah, I should aplogize to you to for being such a dickwad, but I guess it all worked out in the end....Kyle Dooyle ( I know, marriage sucks brother, warned you) Karl Gibson, Alexis Jordan (which I guess it's Doctor Jordan--congrats on the white coat)--Sarah Wright, Andrew Engle.....anyone who was on PARADE's '93 YOUNG COLUMBUS trip to LONDON--the trip that more or less opened my eyes to the world of the arts and oriented me into a life braiding words into linear slants......

Dave Strickler--bro, how much crazy shit we did in High school together....

Hilary Lamontaigne, god girl, it's been a long ass time....

Also JoEllen, Brook (number three) Blowzis, Drunk Mike "soon I shall prove to thee world..." Cigar friendly dilettante of life Mike Davis (where are you!!!!!)

Just a few, if your name appears above this sentence feel free to contact me at any time. You've added much beauty and joy to my life. All I can do is to say thank you........

...such a lonesome vocation

Writing is such a solitary profession. You spend hours a day going down on MS word, licking the square shapes of homerow with your imagination, chain smoking, trying to primp that slim sentence into linear perfection--here's one of my favorite stories about a young writer trying to make it---on his B-day no less:

It's the birthday of journalist and novelist Gabriel García Márquez, born in Aracataca, Colombia (1928). Until he was eight, Márquez was raised by his grandparents, and once said that all his writing had been inspired by the stories they told him. His grandfather was a Colonel and a liberal veteran of one of Columbia's worst civil wars. Gabriel's grandmother told him fantastic legends and tales of witches and ghosts. He became a reporter for the Colombian newspaper El Espectador and later became a foreign correspondent, traveling all over Europe and the Americas. He had published fiction already, but had long wanted to write a novel based loosely on his hometown and his memories of his grandparents. His inspiration for the book came when he realized he had to write it in the same tone of voice his grandmother used when she told stories, describing both supernatural and political events as though there was no difference between them. The style later became known as "magical realism." Once he had the idea for the book he quit his job and wrote for eighteen months, without a break, smoking six packs of cigarettes every day. To support his wife and children, he sold his car and every household appliance, and borrowed money from all his friends. When he tried to sell pieces of his wife's jewelry, many of them wedding gifts, he found out that all the gems were made of glass. By the time the book was finished, he was $10,000 in debt, nearly poisoned by nicotine, and on the edge of a mental collapse. But the book, called One Hundred Years of Solitude (1967), was a best seller, and he never had to worry about money again. The novel tells the story of the Buendía family in the fictional village of Macondo and begins, "Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice." This was based on a true story that his grandfather told him. Márquez is also the author of Love in the Time of Cholera (1985), a story, based on his own parents, of two old lovers reuniting after 50 years.

So much sadness, so close to home....

What's up with all this? My best friend novelist was in tears this morning because he told me he feels that he's wasted too much time to ever finish his novel. The beautiful firey-haired wild-eyed creature who gave me her phone number then inexplicably removed me from FaceBook now won't even bat her eyes in my direction....ahhh...fucking sadness...good news is the fast has quelled my exorbitant caffeine intake...at least during daylight hours...also writing has been amazing. I've been supplicating about 8 hours a day turning the alphabetical squares of the keyboard into a confessional booth. I'll spend five hours on a single line of a poem, rip the entire poem apart like a linguistic pineta, slowly slap the sentences back together again. I love it.... Also published a few poems taht appeared here on Blogger (hence the name change to ASHER HALL).....................