http://slow.writerscafe.org/ColeAtkinson The original writings of author Daniel Atkinson en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776048220 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 I hiked today to the crest of Indian Seatsthe shadows of clouds dotted like raindrops the canopies of the forest, the grassed gaps between treeson the peak above circling falcons I thought of you & what you would make of me here so elevated alone among career hikers & families & sm.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/2817110/ I met a girl for sex and when my dick gave out from nerves she rested her length against me and we talked about our siblingsin that moment I could almost see the light sculpting our shapes in the gathering dark. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/2800980/ my tire went bust todayI changed it there on the hot bank of the highway rumble of passing steel rampant clouds of exhaust the sun laid into me with everything it hadI’ve changed tires before but boyall these people passed and no one stopped or even slowedI guess I can’t blame them if th.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/2800979/ I drive cars with expired tags because I want to feel dangerous to someoneI want to have emotional swaymy car is dirty between rains because I am not a faded photograph of a shirtless nothing man spraying a metal behemoth with city water from a rubber hosethere was a boy in the sixth grade who bragg.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/2784573/ Anxiety http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/2783634/ I crave a frantic heart I step into footprints like familiar shoeswind flicks a dead leaf, old paint curledI don’t know the what and I’m forgetting the whywhen I die someone will be paid to blanket me with earth and they’ll exchange the money for macaroni laundry detergent unripe b.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/2781612/ we are tall we are terriblewe are scarred & otherwise markedwe writhe naked in ecstasy of peace in nests of new grass replete in jagged youth in love Death lusting for us blood in its eyes. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/2781609/ I turn instead to the Buddhabowing student feet bare crown of head offeredsoles dirty caked in mud and hair of dogcorpse of fly in whorl of calloused skin souls of the dead swirl about me I am Christ I am Buddha I am light of Death I am stooped Father Timehair matted salty & coarseback of nec.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/2781608/ drunk on mouthwash it’s funnythe kick the very muleness of it funnygangling and gawking and pimple-scarred and beating on the breast of manhood with jagging f*****g knuckles you’re funny you’re a man you’re funny you’re funny, manand the jokes the saliva sprayyou taste .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/2779983/ lazy after my chemical feast i draw the blinds reclinethe motes swim in my exhalation the blankets are hot the sweat stickysalt-rimmed lips round a soundless wordyour name your every syllablevowels crest and trough and leave me behind and join the air the dust the rumor of sunlighteyes clo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/2779981/ alcohol, depression, cool dudes, being awesome and not depressed, not wanting to die, who cares, drunk and whatever and it all is falling apart inside and out. oops is this the description?? http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/2177969/ nothing special but i'm hammered. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/2168598/ lady left on valentine's day with the flowersbut the doggie don't know.baby boy with a broken homebut the doggie don't know.dad with a spinning headdizzy with the drink and screaming to godboat offshore in choppy watersrudders chopping the squid to calamarirocking and making the sailors sick.oh, the.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/2168459/ i speak so loudly now i can't whisperwhen i do it's a growlbut to me it's a purrsaying:more now, let's have another, be you nowbe you nowbe you now and let'sfreeze.let's.father, partner, addict, fiendkeys under my fingers getting hot against the air outsidewords fail me as they always have and i dam.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/2152696/ midnight nearly, and i'll be hung over.when the bottle whistles empty and i beat at my chestand the warmth is gone and the buzz wears offand i look at the bags under my eyesand i listen to my son's whispery breath as he sleeps and wondersand i hateand i damnand i breathe deep and still feel the hurt.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/2146115/ the dress isn't pretty but it's close enoughtoo many park benches on summer dayssweat stainshere on the back is a streak of almost-nothingthe dog that had left it is dead nowput down in a vet's office south of townwhile the goodbye train bleated sadly.the dog wasn't old but it was cl.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/2075482/ the dying train bleats a farewellfarewell to the weedy tracks that trail its rusted hulkfarewell to the small town down southwith its crooked cops and bars that stink of old beerand the bum that wished the dying train would take him anywhereas it lumbered and chortled past on a hot day in juneit ble.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/2007530/ who am i who asks for you?who walks alonewho keeps you nearwho am i who draws the bath?who dries your feetwho feels your breath"who am i?"he asks againas her eyes begin to flutter"someone new,"she tells himand promptly falls asleep. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/1904053/ i fell into ustucked and rolled with youbeneath me you kissed my chestand we fell together. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/1901793/ after i rub the sleep from my eyes i stand and look out the window at the sand in the dunes outside and i think. i think about the grains and their stories, of travel and homes lost and found. a seagull cries and in the pebbles in the sand a hermit crab dies quietly while across the ocean its cousin.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/1898677/ the breath that blew now whistles emptyit keeps its song in its canyonnever touching the cool wallsbut sweeping its sound along the dirtthe crags and small pebblesthe ancient foldsit’s there and it will be thereuntil the rivers fill with dustand the worms chew the mountains dow.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/1897304/ when the tanks and trucks had faded beyond the borderand the soldiers in the mud had started to swellcolor came back to me and i felt the heat of tearsthe thoughts that had protected me were worn with useand they hadn't much strength left in themand i let the tears comethey did and stayed for a long.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/1863630/ driving homedemarco on the radioone smoke leftbut itwon't help the hangover.the sun crests the treesand it hurts. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/1850525/ i don't want to write about you anymore.on the nights when i canget off mydrunk assand write a damn word or twoi want to write aboutkingsthe moonboozesomething, anythingbutthe words aren't therethey left wheni did. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/1850523/ beneath therugaremalt liquor cansused cigaretteslifechokedfrom theman old lemonused tissueone sock stained yellowandhowever manylettersi've written youandignored.iswept themunderandleft themthereto die. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/1850521/ no one laughed when he told them he was dying.and when the silence got too bigsomeone said they were sorryand people hummed in agreementthere was a cough from the dying manand he lit a camel and let it sit on his lipssmoke burning his eyes but he didn't blink.and then someone asked how longand he to.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/1850240/ he smells like foster's and cheap cigarettes but he doesn't seem to mind asthey surround him like a thick jacket on a june afternoon andhe laughs but it sounds like a moan, or maybe it's the smoke in his throatcatching his voice choking his voice choking his voicehe sounds for a minute like an actor.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/1850233/ the flames came and they took it all.now i will get fat and drunksitting on the rug.f**k it all,my world is dead. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/1848804/ when the ship left port it sounded its horna weak and dying thingengines chugging spewing smokefish swirling in the white wake.it didn't seem to mindit was seaboundno,not this machine.the sailors already drunk on the deckport wine and rumthey didn't know where they were goingand well,they didn't muc.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/1848800/ i don't say much anymoreandmaybe that's for the best.but i think, i still thinkmuch too muchand none of it's anything good,or reallyworth sharingi tell myself:"one of these days, man,you'll get that thoughtand you'll never haveto thinkanymoreyou'll have thought it alland you'll laughyou'll wond.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/1845493/ ahem i saidahemair is dry throat sore, scratchybreathing in my own stinktoo longthe dust on my tongue thatforms into paste on the way into myempty stomachmakes it hard tothink breathe speak breathe laugh be exist breathebut heyi am making domeals slide under the door andyesi eatyesi dig through.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/1645991/ Play house? Who's playing? http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/1421278/ say, hey,there's a world out there, kid,and it's just full ofthe bad the good the weird and uglyyou gotta see it,you just gotta feel ittake it in your handsroll it around squeeze it shake ittill it settles between the ridges in your fingersand then let it stay.let it bake in the sun,bind and crack.i.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/1420933/ Been awake a while. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/1162600/ breathe the dawnoh love.catch my breath in your handsi sigh,oh love.dew in your hairthe sun, your eyesthe world isthere. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/1162598/ here it goes again: the speeding whirring rocking rolling of the fast track.motors and wheels? we ain't got no motors and wheels, son, where you been?what we have here, i said, what's here is love and struggle and happinessdegradation power tears laughter heart soul mind and body,the essence of life.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/1160230/ a sensual one. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/968751/ ask the aching machine,ask the robber in your home,ask the budding celery stalk,ask the cross-dresser in the corner,ask your father,ask the girl giving birth,ask the rotting clementine,ask the barber on fox avenue,ask the rising sun        &n.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/967534/ spoonfed. down the hallan orderly coughs. sicknessand sterility. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/965915/ stream of consciousness. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/961036/ yeah, i remember.it was hot that day,cloudless.sweat on your brow.on my upper lip.and we went to the pier,smelled the fish andsalt and exhaust.we met a toothless fishermanwho showed us his big catch and a rusty fish hook.a missing fingernail.remember him?and we got our picture takenby a brown-eyed m.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/960779/ it went something like this:a man from down the stairsin apartment oh-three-ohtold me the one about thejewess and the bakerover scotchandhis wife's biscuits.they were stale andit was a stale world, to be sure.he did the talking andi did the listeningandthe punchline came and went.a child.a tenant... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/960058/ on the road again. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/939146/ in the belly of a whale. literally. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/884327/ my first in a long while. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/821941/ An aging boxer fights his last. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/801084/ they ask questions. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/797217/ A boy and a killer speak together, and the world keeps turning. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/794117/ guilt. paranoia. all that jazz. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/793164/ another one of those portraits. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ColeAtkinson/791537/