Author: Andrew Thomas

John Updike, Kurt Vonnegut, Dylan Thomas. But it was Robert Browning that I learned to write from. Updike taught me how to live. Vonnegut taught me how to read. Thomas taught me how to dream.

Standing up for what you believe. Laying down for what you need. I was not a child of ethics. I am not a man of decisions or judgements. I am not a man of sadness. I am not a man of memory. Here beyond the Cities Chase and the Catalog Showroom. Beyond the camera’s faceless,…

is a snake in a broken tree limb. Dinner at seven o’ Clock and the evening is still with us wrapped in daylight. The sound of the wind is waiting. The sound of the bugs across the pond. I have only mentioned once or twice, what I was looking for… a day a little longer…

is the silence of the sun. A window. A door. Things that shouldn’t be. A clock is the wisdom of a month, laughing at me in rolling laughs. I told you in something in-between, something over here in French. If you are curious find me. Study, again. See if you can overcome the obstacles, the…

The sun whispered across the field. This is where we slept last night in a tent. We will head into town this morning for breakfast; there is a Church there associated with the last one. We stay along the East Coast these days. A candle at night in the tent in a candle holder. It…

The water ripples down through the creek like steel and glass. The grass blades rise to the chest and the knees and the window. The storm billows its head above the clouds. The blades whip violently left and right. Inside the window as the evening fades to softness the Christmas Tree and its ornaments glisten…

I am a child, sir. And you? I am old. And I am getting older. So am I. What is your question, child? How old is a sun? I was hoping you could tell me. I am as old as you are and no younger. And I am as young as you, but I am…

And the things we number ourselves by. Sidewalks and chain link fences. Orange in the Fall with orange and blue mums on the front porch. These are the things we stress, open doors leading past living rooms that are never used. Neighbors who never come over, who never talk on the phone. My mother with…

I am satisfied with my life at 64. I feel like I have already suceeded. And that I don’t have to worry about not having lived my life to its fullest. Now I am waiting, waiting as gathering.

that is he was like the wind, and his breathes were counted in days. Tonight, he dreams and in evenings long shadows he remains. Where have you gone when the wind stands still? What is there that fades away? Come to me in the evening. Dance as a shadow in the night.

There were three colors last Sunday. I noticed three colors last Sunday. One was green and worn by the minister. The other was brown and was the wooden floors and walls. And on Sunday the color of the sky was blue. I saw many friends throughout the week. And the sky was blue all week…

There was a turquoise rabbit. Soft. There was a diamond and a claw. There was a child down by the ocean walking along the side of the road. There was a diamond and an ocean and the ocean leaned over and said I have heard the name Barabas… who is he. And the child sat…

Reasons to listen. Cartesian Graph. The music moves me to laugh. She stands. Today we mark remarks of past. Mark your cards child, someday we will sing praises to Kings.

Shelter is a whisper. House is a dream.Morgan’s younger sister counts the starson Wednesday evenings.Mother watches the cars on TV,the auction and the old power cars.Alice has grown up into an Angelof blue jeans and Jack Daniels t shirt.And the world is waiting… for old men at crosswalks,and retired Power Rangers. And Presidents.We have become,…

This is the Elephant Graveyard. Elegant bronze lamps presiding over tortured green lawns. Teakwood and brass and here there is nothing only the fractured conversations of alcoholics. The catalog showroom where self determination is preempted by birth. Over beyond the toys are us palace. The camera’s faceless. These are the stumble cookies. And these are…

On the East side they dress for suicide.Razor edged faces with molting hair.T shirts safety pinned to the back of jean jackets.Unkown artists with felt tip markers.Khaki wool overcoats on monochrome silhouettes,like the remnants of some future holocaust.They make their final statements. The West side screams for anarchy with their tongue in cheek.These are the…

Fields and lovely. This is where you find the founding fathers. Nestled among the cold gray stones. Down the street by the Wendy’s and McDonald’s. Here there are tombstones where men are men. Some headstones rising like cathedrals over rows of mirror houses where car fenders and seventeen year old eyes watch hands that move…

A cake. A Saturday afternoon cake.Windows in the evening with the sunshine.There is a thought that goes back three years.I touch the window with my palm.Why do I sleep. Why do I breathe.Because the ocean moves my chest. “What did you and Sarah do this weekend?” “We went to the store with the Martins to…

forced rhymes and chain link fences. Statues for what we believe in. Manicured lawns and leathered faces, callous flowers in winter’s dead hands. Parking garages with night faces and preachers giving reasons for living. Graveyards beside elementary schools in small towns, like baseball diamonds with Easter Island Faces. Fireflies with the souls of innocent children.…