sketcher-of-dreams

In my backyard, it existed briefly as if it were El Dorado gold-paved with banana peels and diamond-studded with eggshells; and after a time, the temple of all that we'd thrown away, all that we strove to give back to the earth softened, aged, moved from the eager flame of adolescence and into the subtler age of belonging. And I, as a child, climbed up the scented richness of waste which crumbled into black loam between my questioning fingertips, and I wished that I, too, could become part of the greater tapestry, fall into the inevitability of exchanging the mortality of impatience with the eternity of wisdom, of turning myself

He believed she was a diamond in the rough. She was a caterpillar in a chrysalis. He smoothed away one of her rough edges: she emerged into the world a maimed butterfly. She winged her way in circles over the bull's-eye microcosm of her art while he flowered into a jewel. Only diamonds can cut diamonds. He was made into a ring for the finger of a patron ignorant of beauty; he dreamed of flying, while she longed for mobility, luster. Now, is it better to be a crippled insect, or a polished ornament?

Was dull, as funerals go. It was nothing I could help, the sound of it left me. And in the moving crowd of black around collars and scarves and the formless grays of our town , bowel movement of black, broken by a laugh, then two, then a whole cascade. Who is to say I wasn’t mad from knowing the truth or wanting to, not knowing enough? Bobby Sweethouse died throwing himself off the school roof. His mother was the first to collect his remains, ashamed almost to see all the mess her boy had made. Many of my friends had said, he deserved this for being a queer, or something along those lines, I’m sure they could pull whatever th