Plunging climate of needles and memory, a plaited sorrow. I listen, with mute intent, for the fetal cortege of leaves, turning then falling fast into the maternal crook of an outgoing wind. Advertisements
Audio track of the spoken word piece, “The Horse’s Mouth” (for Dylan Thomas), with Ben Wright on bass, published in the September issue of the Virtual Artists Collective. Listen here.
August, its days nearly numbered, summer’s pink noiseless fade and exit (how cicadas bury their voices in hollows of silence), autumn’s fresh jags of Memory, reaping, with finite sorrow, the climate-cracked shells of seeds (how tiny birds bury their songs … Continue reading
Friends, and loved ones, I know that so many of you are struggling with shadow-play right now, that your hands are busy knitting in the dark, negotiating long-held absences and haunts, humanly attempting to massage muddle and confusion into clarity; … Continue reading
It took place in an amnesiac haze and fury, numberless nights of lightningspeak and opiate rabble, rocketfuel and anti-freeze, bright ribbons of noise amounting to worry stones indenting the soft pink center of palms, on and on and on, fugitive … Continue reading
It is a magic time, it is a deadly time. We are fresh and newly forming, we excel in discoveries, delight in newness. Our souls are malleable, there is fluidity and grace oozing from us, and with … Continue reading
J.B., I have to kill someone by the end of summer. Joe Ninj stated this casually, as if it were a school assignment or project with a deadline. Five minutes earlier we had been integrated into our … Continue reading
The coke parties were my favorite. It was when everyone was happiest. Everyone meant my father, my mother, and their friends, Teddy and Debby. Occasionally, Debby’s brother, Wayne, was part of everyone. My mother would say—Teddy and Debby are coming … Continue reading
