Forgetting the landscape of shaving, I run the razor sidewise, coaxing a bleed. We have forgotten Corinthian love, or never knew it and wonder if it exists. Wounds, we have, unsalted but unhealed.
Meg had put it from her mind for too long. Today was a day of change and of ending. Which way...which way? Long she had walked. The further away she got from grasping hands and tearful faces, the greater grew her resolve. "God, forgive me." she thought. [Art by Deb Garlick]
I whistled well when I was young- An artifice of breath and tongue. It ruffled almost everyone, Save you, my funny shadow. I met you in the grocery aisle Unwitting of your secret smile I hummed a tuneful ditty while I squeezed an avocado. Funny- how you had the nerve So forward, and without reserve,... Continue Reading →
Joey spoke to himself behind his mask of mute. People didn't make sense anymore. He was in singsong thoughts, and all that was reaching him was the rising scent of his scrambled eggs and the underwater music of voices. Colored, they were, and in his mind he swam. *** Art: "My friend Pierrot", by Max... Continue Reading →
In we stayed, us kids, during the short days of that long winter, while Grand Dad saw to the animals and smoked his pipe. Well, what can you do in feet of powder snow in the flatlands? Not even good for a fort. Checkers. Cards. We fought. We read in kerosene light. *** Art: Winter... Continue Reading →
In paint, you have described my dreams as if I were your ancestor and you had come across dusty tomes of them, written in too-early wakings. And it’s so odd and pertinent that the visions are all Untitled, yet seem to have come from my own cold rooms, leaving blanks on the walls. *** Art:... Continue Reading →
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 Zdzisław Beksiński, untitled.
Hide around corners.Peek between fingersat things of perverse horror.The fascination of feargrows roots in safe shoes.Then, the corners are dared.The fingers become open palms.The face flushes in the full carnal view.In broad day, fixations amble,cloaked as casual wear. *** Art: La pétrification de la papesse, by Victor Brauner
“I have a hunger” - Those words,spoken in a formal manner,were as stillborn, as heavy as a stonecradled in an apron.And, what does one do with this thing you’ve said-you, who were always the comic,furthest from the dead.Taken aback,in slow shock I cup your hand-not leading you to bed,but into nightfall’s garden.We sup on the... Continue Reading →