The moon was straight ahead of me
bold and more orange than usual
I thought it would bring peace into the house
bringing two sprigs of olive from a felled branch.
Mr. Gonzalez, do you mean to tell me, you can provide a way for this boy to enter the Ivy League?
What does it take to write a novel?-- a little less wit and bite than I find in the OP/ED pieces I drool over with delight
and covet. In truth it is still a mystery to me, akin to veiled women in wedding ceremonies under moonlight, the way their
men are fiery while sipping exotic, fermented drinks:
And we walk the beach not a driven lust filled beast.
Mr. Gonzalez is dead. He becomes light by intellectual emaciation.
Mr. Gonzalez was a political consultant. He lived in New York with his wife and beloved dog, Pooch.
Moon-beams are a syllable of faith.
Youth is the state of feeling contrary to what you know.