Sunday, July 22, 2012


a six-word, six-line piece

When I was making as much money as possible
as a Chinese doctor, I ate yellow cake
every day. When I was a writer, I ate chocolate
ice cream and danced in the moonlight. I wore purple
dresses and black socks and dreamed of luxury
as a Mercedes-Benz car to drive. When I lived in the convent, I was pure.

It is possible that the chocolate cake appeared on my front porch by accident. A mistaken identity. A drive-by caking. But the note, written in a careful Celtic calligraphy on a light shade of purple linen paper, spoke of the luxury of friendship and bore my name and that of my lover. He was ending the friendship with a beginning of pure love and a dark chocolate heart from Paris buried in the top of a cake from his hands and heart.


Just a break from the usual entries. Enjoy.

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