Garbed in pastels and duns I went, though there were whims of crimson, and blue ebullience. And I was always just around the corner, safe in softness, empty of the passings by. On a day, I thought to write lines with hooks and sinkers. A thing to underlie, a thing to fill this tired camouflage.
Pierce my heart with cast iron arrows
Fifty years on, in my sad unpacking, this time of letting go, I find, pressed between panes, a polaroid. A face is fuzzily framed in one angled corner, and I think it’s you. A blur of bouncy ponytail, laughing eyes and bunny teeth. Looking up, waving goodbye to balloons released, bound for a section of…
From Thralldom to Salvation
“Are you an anxious person?”, the therapist said. Our man then recalled the thoughts and emotions that preceded his blackout at the wheel on that wintry night not so long ago. He had awakened, after what seemed only a few seconds, with his car in the ditch, a fat lip, and a bloody nose. Otherwise,…
The Captive, in thrall
Almost a year from the day he saw his “tiny dancer”, he still struggles to bury the image, and sees this as a strange and fascinating illness of the soul. Am I weak? Evil? Insane, to let this affect me thus? Has my life been so devoid of joy that I see, every day, the…