Category Archives: Poetry

Darkroom

In the darkroom of your own solitude the slowly developing photographs of your life can be recollected forwards, as if chronology were a fugue, and you its vigilant timekeeper, twice removed.

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Love Is

I miss you already, the sun-kissed daisy whispered to the migrant flake of snow, which clung like a hopeful bead to the daisy’s delicate petal before dying a lover’s death and melting.

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Red Balloon

A red balloon says so much about the sky, and the weightless wonder of children, when desire, bated aloft by the sun, gives free-spirited chase to the play of light on basking reams of nimbus and lore.

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Song of Hope

They kill poetsin these partsdon’t they?When I got hereI saw Walt Whitman’swizened head out backimpaled on a stakeflies buzzing round itsconcomitant rot and stenchI heard one of the locals sayit was the worst kind of tourist trapthis voodoo orbfunctioning like … Continue reading

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Transcience

Where were you last night, my dreams asked of my silence— Between worlds, I longed.

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Nowhere is Now Here

“Voyages are accomplished inwardly”–Henry Miller This dreamer’s life, sentenced to passive worth and fired stillness. Cross my heart and hope to die, there is, I promise, nothing whatsoever to prove or assert or confirm, no doors to walk through (you … Continue reading

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Inspiration’s Track

Inspiration is not a matter of chance, or waiting, or a magic spell that demands bated breath and fretted suspension— it is the fact that you pick up a pen, your fingers growing warm and intimate with its weight and … Continue reading

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Icy Hot

Between worlds, vying for merger, the reigning glacial celibacy of stars, and the marvelous frisson of pure mortal throb— Where you are not, find your ghost’s bluest breath of want upon a mirrored caste of longing.

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Harmonics

We, the people, the portal-jumpers, re-seeding our modes of vision and being, to score the heart’s greening bounty, as if notes to a torch song, buried and nearly forgotten, and now being recalled to give Grace her due and amazing … Continue reading

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Found Blue

We do not enter the bluest hours, they come upon us, tender fugue and gallows silk, where we, in blatant trembling sheerness, are revealed to ourselves as the bated wisps between air and perish.

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