Monthly Archives: November 2017
Dance of the Shadow Leaves, a Triptych.
Drum over me God, I am water under the bridge, threaded with silk and sewn with bones flowing, undammed, into the percussive folds of a liquid body, my name and past ceded to babbles of foam upon a colossal, quivering … Continue reading
In my solitude, I have found myself wanting to shrink even further, into a speck of light, like lint from a star’s navel, or a velvety swath of dark absented from its tailored source; in my solitude, I long to … Continue reading
The out of womb blues, torch song on code red alert– Slow burning for home.
Baby Byron didn’t yet have language, so he twisted and contorted his face into a mask, a distressed aria sounding his discomfort. That it was existential, and not hunger, thirst, tiredness, or physical pain, meant nothing to him. Without language … Continue reading
Writer’s deep sea task, how to breathe underwater– Air of faith, no mask.
Blossom, hue of vetted contradiction, between cherish and fade– Hours, like thorns, slow burn to chasten.
Many people in my life have been consumed by fiction. Fiction is a monster. Fiction is a glutton. Like ego, like an insatiable wrath, it never gets enough, is never satisfied. Fiction has consumed and absorbed many people in my … Continue reading
It was his mantra– Hurry slowly, syllables resigned to vigil.