mattlaneydotcom

We began taking Gas Measurements in the Pyrrhic Reach as soon as our Starcraft outjumped from Owen Space. The navigator A.I. held the Starcraft and by extension the commander and me at station keeping a quarter of a light year due south of a cute, but yet-to-be-explored, binary star system that reminds me of lovers — read more

Fast forward to the past and in Delphi, where in my Collective Unconscious I once dated the Oracle, who somehow knew we’d eventually breakup, especially when I presented my Trojans, and told her we’d always have Paris. — read more

So I’m doing the treadmill twice a day now and listening to a Yale University (sorry, Richard) podcast on The History of Ancient Greece, and lately when I think of Greece my mind fills with hard, sweaty, uphill work like Sysiphus if he’d been Roman. — read more

At the drive-in in the Long Ago. One of those hot sultry Virginia nights in her father’s pickup, my arm around her tanned bare shoulders, the tan lines from the straps of her bikini top a phantom. And it’s good. We both know it is. But it’s not forever. And above, a ranging thunderstorm scraps — read more

Trying to visualize Hedda Gabler at a Vegas Poker Table going all in with a pocket pair of Jacks. — read more

Eventually on a warm evening, I found my way back to “Super Burger ‘8,’” and how could I not? Her homey comfy buns; constellation of delectable condiments; succulent thighs and breasts done as only a woman might and served on a bed of arugula and mixed greens with a honey herb glaze, the basil fresh — read more

True, she did possess the rather unique talent of opening beer bottles with the heel of one of her stilettos, but that’s not what caught my fancy: rather, my desire first peaked for her Beef Bourguignon, which put my own cooking of said stuff to shame, and that, like the beer bottles, she did her — read more

The curve of her bare hipSpeaks to me in TonguesOnly the Poet knows fromWhich wellspring desire floweth — read more

Or… How you can experience the same sensation by listening to Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7 in A, Opus 92, and staring at a Mercator Projection map of the Known World. — read more

It was inevitable the scent of toasted coconut always reminded me of that different time when she planted an unexpected (yet, expected) kiss on my lips, then, subsequently, as her lips left mine, and using her hand pushed me away slightly and said Hey! You taste like coconut cream pie, mister! and I complimented her — read more