My Novel Hot Sadness

 

A stubborn roar is a sad error

- Corso

Health is just absence of footprints on the path

belly full and eyes open -- say hello to my novel, Hot Sadness

all spurious and sultry and bared for absolution.

In the superhero sense beyond some groans,

we make manifest a thing of truth, beauty, and insight

into the rubble of my false notions of permanence where there's

a matched pair of damasked springback recliners

thinking about either the word liminal or terminal

how they both involve lines, in the sand perhaps or

spark, conjure reflect the kind of friend you'd suspect you want to be around.

A cul-de-sac is a road that leads to nowhere. 

Who knows where Nowhere goes.

The low clouds break here and there like girls named Hyacynth, or the Montreal Expos

aw hell, my novel, Hot Sadness, all snowballs and red peppers

still waiting for time to unravel your rebukes.

"Everything falls apart," he said.

"Yes but we try to hold things together as long as we can."

"All in vain," he added, as a plane farted across the darkening sky.

She started to cry.  I'm sorry, I add, too late, and not enough.