Ask me about my childhood, and I will tell you to walk to the edge of the woods with a choir of crickets chirping from every direction, a hot, humid breeze brushing through your hair, your feet, bare...
The guitar breathed. It inhaled and exhaled, and music filled the shop as the instrument picked the heartbreak of generations.
A song rises up from the belly of my pastand rocks me in the bosom of buried memories.
With red clay between my toes,and the sun setting over my head,the ghost of my mother blows in,riding on a honeysuckle breeze, oh lord,riding on a honeysuckle breeze.
He takes a draw on a cigarette, blows out a smoky ghost. I reach to catch the phantom in my hands, but it eludes me. I've been trying to catch a ghost for as long as I can remember.
The place cast a spell on me, a lovely spell that seduced me one one breath at a time.
When you scratch these guitars, they bleed.
I could go to a dozen houses, scrape away the dirt, and find his footprints, but my own prints evaporated before I ever looked back.
Kevin knew he had to always outrun the enemy inside him, and if that meant playing football, he'd do it. During puberty, he had taken off running and found too late that he couldn't stop. In dreams th...
By noon, silence arrives one last time, flowing into every space of her room. And before long, silence swallows sound and color and seconds and equations and entire stanzas of old poetry, leaving new...
Songs. Books. Poetry. Paintings. These things reveal truth. I believe lies and truth are tangled together.
There are parents who use their small children as weapons. They are weak people. Sick people. And their children are watching them, watching how Mom and Dad use them as weapons.
The wind whirls and whistles and strip pink blooms from the mimosas, scatters twigs, broken limbs, pine needles and pine cones across our yard, and robs the pecan trees of a thousand leaves. The storm...