Oh, for a pen, paper, flask of brandy,
and a comfortable place to meditate
I could write and compose for all to behold.
To be remembered in posterity;
but not for my poems, nor for my prose;
but instead, for my audacity.
And as far as my avatar is concerned:
I found Him at dusk along the railroad tracks.
A little green lizard lying on top of Him,
that seemingly assumed invisibility
when it took notice of me.
I stood Him up at the end of my street
to give Him dignity.
Two days later was a little lizard on my steps;
lying watchfully, intently studying me,
then it assumed invisibility.
Since then that lizard is nowhere to be seen,
as its master yearns southward bound—
awaiting nightfall, it would seem,
compelled to stalk unceasingly.
Could it be the Jersey Devil
I aroused so unwittingly?
Where to buy in print
Murder, Werewolves, and Ghosts
by Phil Cross
Three weird short stories: featuring,in the first, the owner of an auto parts junkyard; in the second, immigrants of Romanian descent; and in the third, the inhabitants of a crawl space.
Grandma Was a Bag Lady
by Phil Cross
A pet supplies traveling saleswoman, aged twenty-eight, picks up a seventy year old woman hitchhiker on the Interstate. They adopt each other as surrogate grandmother and granddaughter, traveling about the southwest, engaging in one adventure after another in which the old woman is not hesitant to use the .25 caliber pistol strapped to her thigh.
Phil Cross' tag cloud