I dream in hieroglyphicsand ink the walls of caves; eschew the honorifics, the accolades, the raves. It's all for fun, and all for free- I'll never make a buck. Matter of fact, I'm in the hole, but still I run amok.
Susan
This black eye- it changes sides some days, but the worst of the gaze is when the other side greys.
Gone. Gone.
I travelled with three. One was pure and unnamed, as if it were her first hours on the ground. A second was ambitious, driven, risky. The third I thought of as a tower- strong, aloof, convening with cloud thoughts. In the glow of late afternoon, we watched a rocket explode. The hope of many. Gone.... Continue Reading →
The lost
He dreams of things with tattered wings, open mouths, and lolling tongues. Heaven's impostors, fallen from grace. Thirsting but never slaking, they lie impaled in the pines, their chill voices forbidding all who may think to touch. Art by Daniel Eskridge
Small world
She watches, bemused, then walks away as I keep up the stirring of the hot pot of milk and cocoa.I covet that clunk of spoon, milk-muted, because of a recurring dream in which each of my teeth is tapped with a tuning fork. Like a drip on the hot burner, I make myself into a... Continue Reading →
Stagnant
The one-room mind has insistent vines and an off-balance floor. Weighted words are thrown with the heft of a hatchet and a boomerang's promise. In a trial outing, it sees a clove-eyed dog zeroing itself against a young oak, which trembles slightly and drops its curlicue hangings. Art by https://www.artstation.com/dmiiitry
No exit
~Of late, dreams of flight have been over desolate landscapes, and instead of searching for Shangri-La, I want only to go home. Once soaring and drunk on elixir, now I must use my hover-hands to stop, skinning my palms. Doors and doors are heard in a slamming echo.~
The understudy
(Originally published as Bewitchery) We kids always called it The Last House in Town, but really it was just outside of town limits. With its old red brick covered in summer's ivy, its hot tin roof for the cats, and its perimeter fence of spear-topped wrought iron, it looked suitably forbidding. Especially at dusk on... Continue Reading →
No back talk
I sit, folded into a flypaper chair. No one refills my coffee. I speak to google, and she answers. Sometimes tritely, and other times voluminously. Phrasing is important. She has a programmed sense of humor. We never mention Alexa, that bitch. Image: https://pixabay.com/users/geralt-9301/
Conflagration
I've always thought that you have an eye for fire. An affinity for flame. It's curious that we meet, unplanned, at these worshippings. And if by chance I see you in the cold air, your strange eyes tell of blue smoke. *** Image: https://pixabay.com/users/hans-2/
AreMyFeetOffTheGround 