Inheritance

Amidst divisive riot,
the clear sound of two tears mating
upon the crest of a sunken cheek;
a mother’s grief, near to fasting
and silence, the warmest cross to inherit
in holding the meek inviolate.
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Winter, a Love Story

Winter’s brides,
wearing long white scarves of sleet and song,
touching pale sky to blue lips,
breathing memory and frost;
their sorrow
and spectral want
grows hands
 that enclose me, a robust crush,
matrimonial in its grip,
until I am no more than a whiff of air,
and then, not even that, a traceless speck
unremembered to light,
and how it falls.
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Zuzu’s Petals

george_bailey_happy_its_a_wonderful_life
(It’s a Wonderful Life haiku)
A father’s pocket,
containing secret petals—
the meaning of love.
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First Love, Winter

snow-ii
Boy and girl, sledding
tongues, no words—
Winter, warming up.
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Gateway

 

It is here
in this place,
this chaste hollow,
where my heart, bare
to touch and asking,
reveals itself in equal measures
as gospel and wound,
singing softly its locks
and ravels to reach another’s
lighted room,
unbarred.
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The Little People

radio-radio

Podcast of my short story “The Little People,” featured in the November issue of The Golden Walkman, a “literary magazine for your ears.” Listen here.

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Scar

img_3785
A jigsaw scar of light,
outsourcing God’s inscrutable
heart, a movable sear
lost and found
everywhere,
as the mouth of the cave
brightly attests.
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Call

Channeling the
fire in my throat
to meet my heart’s rising
call, or, how the mating
of arson and grace
breathes new life into
immeasurably just cause.
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Cinema

When rooted squarely
in the flickering center
of your life
as a mysterious cinematic
expedition, duly resigned
to the happy burning of chapters
and missives, it is there
and then that fascination,
like a dimestore Virgil,
takes curious hold,
enacting the role of guide,
so long as you remain
supple to its touch
and malleable in tow.

 

 

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Review of Carnet d’AmeriKa

manuelaSaenz
“To be human is to transform; to be human is to name, then name anew. I must remember the inseparable nature of word and action.” Erin Currier, 6 November, 2004
In a sense this passage became one of Erin Currier’s self-fulfilling mantras, its ethos guiding the trajectory of her life and art. As an insatiable seeker, with the ambulatory zeal of a flâneur, Currier has literally “walked the walk” in collecting trash from different countries around the world. Her epic scavenger hunt, keyed to alchemy and renewal, has given rise to a dynamic body of artwork which continues to grow and attract followers and collectors worldwide.
To read the full review, appearing in the inaugural issue of Riot Material, click here.
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