the southpaw stance
It feels like some rite of aperture. Some tide of focus falling just right. This instant, a field of mottled shadow; that moment, the graven purity of shine and hue. Like the flavor of a photograph tinting the trends remembered, that memory nothing like the sun. My head hung low as the lively breeze rises. The day crowned with flowers and colored...
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It feels like some rite of aperture. Some tide of focus falling just right. This instant, a field of mottled shadow; that moment, the graven purity of shine and hue. Like the flavor of a photograph tinting the trends remembered, that memory nothing like the sun. My head hung low as the lively breeze rises. The day crowned with flowers and colored...
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the flow of obscure bones
One by one the stars are put away, slid into some other nighttimes sky. The day arrives, unbidden and far too early, rattling the doorknobs and savaging the blinds. Soon there might be stories, some proclamation of my betters, or the details of some sad catastrophe. I gather the papers and drag them inside, scarcely noticing a word. Daybreak comes,...
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One by one the stars are put away, slid into some other nighttimes sky. The day arrives, unbidden and far too early, rattling the doorknobs and savaging the blinds. Soon there might be stories, some proclamation of my betters, or the details of some sad catastrophe. I gather the papers and drag them inside, scarcely noticing a word. Daybreak comes,...
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paper yellow
Another day weighted with the scuff and tread of the stranger, as bright as treasure, as blinding as pride. Huddled among all these colors, paper pale and dyed-cotton darker, I mumble my varied breathy threats. Words spit-shined and cast away into the wind and the weeds. Each sulky breath shambling into towers and basements, oaths and curses and the clumsy account. Clouted with...
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Another day weighted with the scuff and tread of the stranger, as bright as treasure, as blinding as pride. Huddled among all these colors, paper pale and dyed-cotton darker, I mumble my varied breathy threats. Words spit-shined and cast away into the wind and the weeds. Each sulky breath shambling into towers and basements, oaths and curses and the clumsy account. Clouted with...
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other birds' songs
I paid no attention to the day as it was breaking, but it broke all the same. It rides the rails of wind and dust, dousing candles and inflaming allergic reactions as it can. The regular declarations of fiery sovereignty are spit by the mockingbird, airing retreads of other birds songs. It is a tense and jangling music, like the melody of...
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I paid no attention to the day as it was breaking, but it broke all the same. It rides the rails of wind and dust, dousing candles and inflaming allergic reactions as it can. The regular declarations of fiery sovereignty are spit by the mockingbird, airing retreads of other birds songs. It is a tense and jangling music, like the melody of...
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lost in place
Little light pierces the scuffed up surface of the sky, all gray clouds and bands of gold. The light is diminished, yet to look up still can blind. What a day to be kept waiting for that certain secret truth. What a time to be alive when all the lies walk the streets without deference to the hour. The ragged roses all...
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Little light pierces the scuffed up surface of the sky, all gray clouds and bands of gold. The light is diminished, yet to look up still can blind. What a day to be kept waiting for that certain secret truth. What a time to be alive when all the lies walk the streets without deference to the hour. The ragged roses all...
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nothing much
The mockingbird all but said as much. I had something on my mind, and nothing much to say. The lawnmower next door buzzes and pings, drowning out the birdsong and ranchera music, clotting the air in a gauze of noise and spatter. It is hot even in the shade, the daylight traded for plodding matter. My mouth is laden with dust. If I...
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The mockingbird all but said as much. I had something on my mind, and nothing much to say. The lawnmower next door buzzes and pings, drowning out the birdsong and ranchera music, clotting the air in a gauze of noise and spatter. It is hot even in the shade, the daylight traded for plodding matter. My mouth is laden with dust. If I...
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rerun
The houses have been abandoned to the banks. All the avenues are empty. The sun withholds its favors, then loses all control. The windswept light all at once surrenders its features, picking its colors from the depth of the spectrum. A mocking bird sings and reels, falling broadly from sky to pine. It comes along just so often, the weight of all wonder just...
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The houses have been abandoned to the banks. All the avenues are empty. The sun withholds its favors, then loses all control. The windswept light all at once surrenders its features, picking its colors from the depth of the spectrum. A mocking bird sings and reels, falling broadly from sky to pine. It comes along just so often, the weight of all wonder just...
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counted down
Was it the sun on the skin, was it the wind in the trees, this ghost of warmth and whispers? The long descent so perilous and without incident that danger seems a sudden impediment rather than the course of the constant. All those slip-thin senses that catch glimpses from the corners, all the amalgamations of ought and is that guided our lives and...
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Was it the sun on the skin, was it the wind in the trees, this ghost of warmth and whispers? The long descent so perilous and without incident that danger seems a sudden impediment rather than the course of the constant. All those slip-thin senses that catch glimpses from the corners, all the amalgamations of ought and is that guided our lives and...
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millenarian
Time goes on, what may what must. And still the sword cleaves to the stone, the great bow unstrung in the hall dotted with old dogs and suitors. Jesus still runs on messiah time, and the extra place remains empty every year. The thunderer hasn't perished in the jaws of that last monster, each calendar never the last. You'll don't show each and every...
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Time goes on, what may what must. And still the sword cleaves to the stone, the great bow unstrung in the hall dotted with old dogs and suitors. Jesus still runs on messiah time, and the extra place remains empty every year. The thunderer hasn't perished in the jaws of that last monster, each calendar never the last. You'll don't show each and every...
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that grim beauty
Theres nothing to be done. It seems that everyday lately it is spring, with summer soon to follow. The days stretch and gather what they may. Rosebuds or aphids, bullet shells and bodily wounds. The chill that slowed the seepage is gone, and all manner of beasts and fevers are awake and hungry. There is beauty, though there is always beauty, it...
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Theres nothing to be done. It seems that everyday lately it is spring, with summer soon to follow. The days stretch and gather what they may. Rosebuds or aphids, bullet shells and bodily wounds. The chill that slowed the seepage is gone, and all manner of beasts and fevers are awake and hungry. There is beauty, though there is always beauty, it...
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beat the count
Life will give you long, smoky looks. Life will give you lemons, and all manner of lucky numbers. Guess all you want, but you dont get to know the ending until it is already over. Knocked down and broken, the world gifts you with bouquets and sobriquets, with bruises and stitches and the quiet knitting of too brittle bones. Not dead yet...
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Life will give you long, smoky looks. Life will give you lemons, and all manner of lucky numbers. Guess all you want, but you dont get to know the ending until it is already over. Knocked down and broken, the world gifts you with bouquets and sobriquets, with bruises and stitches and the quiet knitting of too brittle bones. Not dead yet...
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posterity
It is enough to know that there will be no left-overs. It is enough to know that even the things that never were will be gone. So much laden like Macbeths many sorry tomorrows. So much lost before anyone gave a thought to the looking. Day green and fevered, nights black as trust. Rooms lit with candles and windows riddled with rain. Promises that...
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It is enough to know that there will be no left-overs. It is enough to know that even the things that never were will be gone. So much laden like Macbeths many sorry tomorrows. So much lost before anyone gave a thought to the looking. Day green and fevered, nights black as trust. Rooms lit with candles and windows riddled with rain. Promises that...
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kay:
Interesting timing to read this. I was just lamenting the passing of a few members on the site.
kay:
Indeed. And reminders. Sometimes it is the little things.
Ah well. I'm going to take my melon collies, and just toss them.
ha ha.
Ah well. I'm going to take my melon collies, and just toss them.
ha ha.