Tag Archives: art
Through the grace of repetition, the writing life grounded in the slow, wistful measures of wellspring’s fortune. Advertisements
Fiction is a monster. It demands, it consumes. It is a glutton. Enough is never enough. It won’t be satisfied until the unreal becomes utterly real, beyond real. Its sole desire is to usurp reality, to surpass it. It basks … Continue reading
One thing we cannot recover is time. Perhaps that’s what I have been trying to do. Perhaps that’s what every writer, as a fugitive stalker, as a heartsick orphan, as the fool-hero in their own movie is … Continue reading
One thing we cannot recover is time. And perhaps every writer, as a fugitive stalker, as a fool-hero on a desperate quest, sets himself this glorious, impossible task, the solvent recovery of time through the mortal fetters of a merciful … Continue reading
A sense of removal raveled in intimacy and ghostly union, a sense of closeness achieved on the periphery where fools dance an impossible jig to fulfill absence.
Pen, referencing a glossary of soul, scratches out excess to clarify Eternity, finger-holds, tenuous at best, dignify the mount of a marvelously impossible task.
By whirling reams of papered birds, the writer’s flights, short-lived, earn the keep of dreams daringly emptied.
To write a poem that demands nothing from anyone else, truly asks for nothing, except to become, is the purest placeholder for the Muse’s proferred balm.
There will come a day when, unplugged and remote, you dissolve and slip gently between the veils, so much mist needed for mourning’s soft focus into grave clarity.
To birth visual sound, mortals shaped into music– painter’s brush with fame.