There’s the angle and the aperture, and all the lofty rhetoric. There’s the stone angels giving you the signal. The miracle has come and gone, with only the stories ever staying. Now there’s chords and notes, scapegoats and golden throats, the landscape of the revelation. Coils of smoke and sawed through rope and the cobwebs in the corners. The window always open, the atmosphere always...
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We arrive between cataclysms, at the gracious side of great devourings, and just like that we become the dreaming. Beneath another too soon blue and the fresh breathing green, the restless belly and the road of life. We run our mouths and our learned routes until we have to rest our heads, something to serve as shelter, the respite of dreams and some pleasure if...
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Deep in the black dog bandwidth, smoke and wind and the way they placed the gravity heavily laden upon my frame and grace. I hang my head, watching the flight plans of porch flies adjust their geometries, some shared frequency there in the calculations. Lawn mowers sound out above the rush of the air and all the shared genres of song, bass line thump and...
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It’s still a little ways from sundown. It’s still the wind and the dashing smoke. Houses papered with pressed leaf shadows, the sun still kissing the swaying trees, the green reaches of the dreaming earth holding down the ground. There is a chill beneath these eaves, there is a cold grown of the lonesomeness between blood and bone, the haunted feeling of a fire burning...
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This one starts with the needle on empty. This one ends in bottles and brass. The long odd Sunday, the stricken god back again, eggs and rabbits and other time honored habits strewn about. All the roads weary from the wandering, all the bones speaking in the past tense, the blood always circling back to the prophecies. The soundness of the defeat, the crack clean...
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The night right here in self selected fragments and ritual forms, smoke and the vagaries of sleeping screens. A light on the ceiling, shadows refusing shape dancing around the room, music swelling because it always means so much. A swallow of cool water, the cleansing of the palate. The inked in instances and the cornered ghosts, painting in wrong names and guessed at numbers, instruments...
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The spell of the sparrow hawk is written in bend and break against the skin of the wind. The workings of the elder craft upon the manifest, all soft for sharpness, all speed for strength. The deft misdirect of the evasion, the brief survey of the scene as the next crime is calculated, the stitching of the seams and the singing of the world. The...
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You awake inside your latest indiscretion, fumbling around with the script. Outside the songbirds continue with their lists on loop, the window in the kitchen framing a falcon who isn’t fooling around. The days are said grace, the days are all ring a rosie. The circles that we travel in, around and around and around, up until the ashes and the all fall down. The...
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Fooled again, it’s so lovely to look at. The way in the way again, it’s so touching if it’s true. Spring heeled and moon honed, we move between cases. Sun kissed and world wept, we rise from our sleep of the just. The sword cleaved from the stone, the wasp that hitched a ride, it’s the glistening of the armaments and the ice cream truck...
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The shadows of leaf and limb waver out of focus on the tree trunk, a blurred version projected by the walk it off sun, the verite of this cinema an aftershock of the double seeing to be done. Our eyes add the stories as the world meets us with stick and stone. We have fallen and we can’t get up. We move like the world...
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The winds give in to the cool shadows, the sky still blazes blue, the season so green and reaching. The tangled grasses and the bone strewn yard, children passing in masks on bicycles, the dogs lying down by the drive. The sun is ducking out behind the house, a blaze of glory upon the fields and crown of the silent elementary school while the light...
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The stories have a way they go. Only wish on the nearest star. Only walk on troubled waters. The legends and the lore reach up through the roots of tongue and breath. We are riddled with these words and ghosts, the presence of our flesh carried upon this continuity of blood and breath, life both the raft and the sinking ship. There’s always one more...
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