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Words of Mine and Words I Love

Revelations from my side of the See

A tiny bird with a saucy tongue and a well-bitten lip of wit and wanton. A boozing bawdy cyclotourist borne on by lugged steel and tensioned leather. A poet who knows it with a hidden shy streak a mile wide. A barefoot dancer in the dusk of May, or June, or July, or February. A Nor'westerner, borne and raised and dead and razed again. An impassioned cook of imperiled dumpster'd or homegrown vegetables. A purveyor of light and a maker of beautiful things.

Sometimes this journal makes sense and contains a narrative about my life, other times I scribble words in it that probably only make sense to riddlesome me. My "public" face is mostly friends-only, but that varies.