Who wears short shorts?
The wan sun on Athabasca.Her dress of snapdragon lace. A dwindling down to frost, this night.An unexpected need for gloves. Keep moving, I must.
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Brand "X" , and ACME, poems and stories. Surreal, sappy, funny, horrific, and human.
poetry
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I told you, from a distance, that I loved you, and was blackened with the earned shame of the illicit. Noses sniffed. Fingers pointed. Hands covered whispering lips. But you? You had a look of surprised wonder, and blushed redly, uncaring of the devil’s radio.
MoreAt the beach, in morning fog
At water’s edge I plied the sand for vacant shells and stones to skip, so flat. There, there was a tree that had given up, acute in its angle, embarrassed at the nakedness of its bleached roots. Close by, an eyeless carcass grinned, in the throes of its last hysterics.
MoreAs large as life
stopped at a light i saw in slow seconds herself in bliss with eyes half closed in quiet crescents her hem in hand as if to shoo nipping cats watch the puddles dear you are out of this world but i pray for yours
MoreLeading the blind
This blind alley The horde of the golden calf carries its standard on high Lemmings thinking they are lions while the meek and considered are too quiet too long Condemned to repeat lessons unlearned
MoreI don’t deny
I look up rugs and pads. Imagine measurements and the weight of heavy things. A spoonful of white dwarf. An anchor. To be here, and not to fly.
MoreThe thin cat thinks
All bony and moany, on hollow stilts he walks, stumbling to a slow pause. With dimming lamps he scans the dumbness of air, then cries at the memory of the hunt. The plates of his shoulders stretch his sparse skin, and pepper spots remember lost whiskers.
MoreThe motions
I am left-leaning, by dint of bones. In love with the art of the cat and his season of the witch. In the morning shower, in coveralls of numb, I cook up paeans to the nebulous You.
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