You put on those airs Tripping the light fantastic Falling down the stairs
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 … Continue Reading At the beach, in morning fog
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 … Continue Reading As large as life
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 … Continue Reading Leading the blind
A diving moth caught in venetian rays, like a bedside meteor. In soreness of spirit, I chew on thoughts of old romancers, closet dancers.
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.
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 … Continue Reading The thin cat thinks
2:43 a.m. and I get up to pee. There’s only the night light, knee height. I shuffle arthritic, steady the wall, when a white thing bumps my eye like a … Continue Reading A white thing
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 … Continue Reading The motions
A recent change of heart. A looming change of mind. An anxious left-handed day.
Author, I call you.Explorer and visitor.Architect of chaptersin the tomes of my dream.
Coffee in the quiet warmth of morning. Birdsong ‘neath a cloud’s tilted anvil, and the way they paint their paths to a landing. Soft intrusions of fly feet and the … Continue Reading a plan
Give me your hand, Love, in these cold rooms of doldrum. Give me your hand, Love.
What is here,by design,is umbilical to me.This feed of lifeand blood of red.But now,instead,a sorry headthinks of strifeand the future of a knife.
On the second globe in great Alpheratz’s sway, little Donelda comes to herself at the sound of trickling water. In the stream’s iridescence, something bobs, circle-twirls in the undertow of … Continue Reading Donelda’s find
You know, don’t you. You can tell. I sit in the greenery, but perceive only symbols. All of its inhabitants seem impatient, as if to chide me for this microscope … Continue Reading Stewing in the green