empty grave
In the dream someone follows the flier, they both rise slowly into the air. They rise above the rooftop, spraying chains of plastic beads and mystery creatures as they rise. Soon they are out of sight, and I am thinking that I can not wait for them to come back down. It rains, and I awake to rain on the rooftop. The street...
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In the dream someone follows the flier, they both rise slowly into the air. They rise above the rooftop, spraying chains of plastic beads and mystery creatures as they rise. Soon they are out of sight, and I am thinking that I can not wait for them to come back down. It rains, and I awake to rain on the rooftop. The street...
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tomorrow run aground
Turn around and the whole night is gone, moon and stars and all. There is the dawn, bright and blue, all awash in sunlit wonder and lists left undone. Open the blinds to let the light feather in, turn off the porch light because the moths have other places to go. Hands in pockets, counting keys and knives. Hands in pockets, counting...
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Turn around and the whole night is gone, moon and stars and all. There is the dawn, bright and blue, all awash in sunlit wonder and lists left undone. Open the blinds to let the light feather in, turn off the porch light because the moths have other places to go. Hands in pockets, counting keys and knives. Hands in pockets, counting...
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jaune:
thank you very much for supporting my travel!!!
xoxo
xoxo
photograph
You would love me if I were a camera. A dead eye only opened to reveal your truth to the waiting world. A passage to every paid for blessing, the breathless adulation, the thoughtless wonder your beauty must command. You would love me past these scattered words, past these fitful premonitions. Were I a camera, you would see me as the light shining in...
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You would love me if I were a camera. A dead eye only opened to reveal your truth to the waiting world. A passage to every paid for blessing, the breathless adulation, the thoughtless wonder your beauty must command. You would love me past these scattered words, past these fitful premonitions. Were I a camera, you would see me as the light shining in...
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sinking
The stones are still out in the yard, comfortable in the dark, satisfied with the night. All the barking dogs, all the devil's watch enmity eludes them, quiet for all their burdens. Settled and in place. Unmoved by any calm or commotion. Their level found, and resolutely held. For my part, I am still sinking.
The wind has its say, and the trees are...
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The stones are still out in the yard, comfortable in the dark, satisfied with the night. All the barking dogs, all the devil's watch enmity eludes them, quiet for all their burdens. Settled and in place. Unmoved by any calm or commotion. Their level found, and resolutely held. For my part, I am still sinking.
The wind has its say, and the trees are...
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these brittle glimpses
I watch the sky go through its paces, from strips of gray to streaks of blue. I watch the day break over roof and tree, scars of light across the steeped fields of clouds and stars. The night fades away in bits and pieces. It breaks into headlights and birdsong and promises unresolved. Mostly, it just breaks.
The night sticks to the...
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I watch the sky go through its paces, from strips of gray to streaks of blue. I watch the day break over roof and tree, scars of light across the steeped fields of clouds and stars. The night fades away in bits and pieces. It breaks into headlights and birdsong and promises unresolved. Mostly, it just breaks.
The night sticks to the...
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inheritance
We received these gods and symbols, the shape of unborn cites, the color of our eyes. We arrive with this rush of the certain, the confluence of blood and history only leading to us here. It is the leaden taste of victory, the august grace of raw survival, the mingling of every slip of chance that feeds the day. We see and are saved...
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We received these gods and symbols, the shape of unborn cites, the color of our eyes. We arrive with this rush of the certain, the confluence of blood and history only leading to us here. It is the leaden taste of victory, the august grace of raw survival, the mingling of every slip of chance that feeds the day. We see and are saved...
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bixton:
Aw thanks =P
Now sir I definately love the last line of your blog.
Now sir I definately love the last line of your blog.
details
The spring sky has surrender to the clouds, streaking gray across these gaps of blue. The wind whips its warnings through the streets. The usual habits of flocks and strays accelerate, the scramble for warmth and security running at double time. The garbage cans line the curb, standing at attention as the light leaves yet again. The night finds me beneath its measure.
A...
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The spring sky has surrender to the clouds, streaking gray across these gaps of blue. The wind whips its warnings through the streets. The usual habits of flocks and strays accelerate, the scramble for warmth and security running at double time. The garbage cans line the curb, standing at attention as the light leaves yet again. The night finds me beneath its measure.
A...
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the crow unfolds
Before the bees enchant the bottle brush, before the sun illuminates the heights of the crooked pines, the crows reach the sky. Raucous upon the swaying cypress, spreading their shadows across the eaves, always calling. The glide and fly and dive and soar, mingling the wind with their whims, aiming their swift ink towards feast or threat or declamation. With a cry...
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Before the bees enchant the bottle brush, before the sun illuminates the heights of the crooked pines, the crows reach the sky. Raucous upon the swaying cypress, spreading their shadows across the eaves, always calling. The glide and fly and dive and soar, mingling the wind with their whims, aiming their swift ink towards feast or threat or declamation. With a cry...
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of sun kings and bleeding saints
It feels the same to tongue and tooth. Just another syllable, slipping from the mouth. Just another word, too bitter or too sweet to not be spat out. The breathless phrasing, the subtle jibes, the saying for the sake of being heard. It is all the same to the meat and machinery, lip and lung and ligature. The mind...
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It feels the same to tongue and tooth. Just another syllable, slipping from the mouth. Just another word, too bitter or too sweet to not be spat out. The breathless phrasing, the subtle jibes, the saying for the sake of being heard. It is all the same to the meat and machinery, lip and lung and ligature. The mind...
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smoke
It is like using your imagination
only everything is real--
the dry certainty of the paper,
the scuff of fingers straying
off the mark. Even the warm wax
surety of your own flesh
feels plastic and resolute
as the dusk sinks in.
Reading out loud, only the words
seem so out of place, made up,
lost in the machinery of breath
and hope. So...
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It is like using your imagination
only everything is real--
the dry certainty of the paper,
the scuff of fingers straying
off the mark. Even the warm wax
surety of your own flesh
feels plastic and resolute
as the dusk sinks in.
Reading out loud, only the words
seem so out of place, made up,
lost in the machinery of breath
and hope. So...
Read More
krito:
hi ... Thank you so much for your lovely commet on my new set i!!! I really appreciate it!!!
I misunderstood
The morning so cold, then the night so warm. One thing seems to follow another, another thing seems to happen just to happen. It makes for buckets of explanations. It makes for hours of bluff and chatter. My feet were interrupted from their rhythm by the traffic of snails; above my head, a stippling of stars. Time can crawl as well as fly....
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The morning so cold, then the night so warm. One thing seems to follow another, another thing seems to happen just to happen. It makes for buckets of explanations. It makes for hours of bluff and chatter. My feet were interrupted from their rhythm by the traffic of snails; above my head, a stippling of stars. Time can crawl as well as fly....
Read More
ritual
The yard is littered with the victims of the wind-- leaf and limb, the scattered debris of that last unyielding breath, a fledging dead and mauled past recognition. Always the danger of flying too soon, the threat of falling too far to contend with, each ragged night, each shining day. The sound of lawn mower engines and youthful braggadocio, the relentless affections of our...
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The yard is littered with the victims of the wind-- leaf and limb, the scattered debris of that last unyielding breath, a fledging dead and mauled past recognition. Always the danger of flying too soon, the threat of falling too far to contend with, each ragged night, each shining day. The sound of lawn mower engines and youthful braggadocio, the relentless affections of our...
Read More