mattlaneydotcom

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

Tis sunrise, the sky cloudy and gray as the underside of an ocean-going vessel save for a single eye-like splotch of orange in the East. Perhaps an announcement from the Herald of All Things. Perhaps not. Cold from the night lingers, and milky white tendrils of sticky fog loop themselves around the crowns of tall… — read more

It’s the dark of night. A fair wind blows through the roundish porthole of the stateroom. Salt laden air is omnipresent, coming from the ocean below as the Airship “Destiny of Chance,” on which I’m on board, cruises north towards the Border. I button my leather flight jacket. I’m due up for the midnight watch.… — read more

When I was in my late teens in Northern Virginia back in the ‘80s day, I had a Coleman canoe that I strapped to the top of my butterscotch-colored VW bus my father had sold to me for a buck, and I would take the canoe and paddle on the backwater tributaries of the Potomac… — read more

Sitting in the Twilight lighted room with the dark at the windows’ thresholds, dark waiting animal-like to intrude into the space if given the slightest opening and, in remembrance of those once living comes a certain craving for Veracity, mostly. — read more

I find myself thinking of her in ways I shouldn’t. “You were in the Outlands previously?” she says in a quiet voice. I look away from the fire. From her. Above us looms the universe in a cloudless and black night sky. And like fated chance, the two moons dance together as they set in… — read more

Fog creeps with a giant’s silence as if mocking the smoke blown from a defeated and burning Carthage at the end of the Punic Wars after the last sword was thrust, and a lone dying soldier gazed with wonder upon the Mediterranean Sea, and Cato smiled. — read more

Her honey’d Passion drips Slowly, As her sticky warmth unzips Nudely, On curved hip go forth lips Lowly, A kiss transcending courtship Unholy — read more

Although I do contemplate a sultry late night on a balcony with a low-hung crescent Moon (waining or waxing, makes no difference) and a Star-filled tapestry above and a jasmine breeze blows soothely along silken smooth skin and a cold bottle of Ca’ d’Gal Vigna Vecchia awaits in a Mauviel hammered copper wine bucket along… — read more

— read more