Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable

Dear Dissonance

Serpentine swirls
billowing beneath
my will
stretched past forgeting,
forgiving allowances
made for each
confused wave,
each glance at the void,
each simpering truth
that wouldn’t be gilded.
We wished for more
than drifting bliss
we pined for
collisions that
might leave us bloody
in our dissonance.
Friction is welcome,
exquisite scarlet scraped
into understanding.

Raymond Chandler cut his typing paper in half. He’d type until he made a bad word choice or botched a bit of dialogue, then he’d rip the sheet out of his typewriter and start again. Eventually he’d have a half page of fiction he could stand. Then he’d move forward—very, very slowly—to the next half-page of his novel.


We dance
another round
in the chamber.
We take
the trick shot
in a barrel.
We pray
sadness pressed
to our temple.
Rarely subtle,
life leaps down
and, with a stroke,
unmakes us.