There is no story greater than the one you don’t tell yourself, silence and lighted space inviting wonder and mystery to pool at the center of who you are beyond facile descriptions and prior claims. Advertisements
There are chambers inside myself I have yet to discover or visit, for example, that one room rumored to contain a monk in tattered robes hunched over a yellow table benignly autistic in his relations to text and verses which … Continue reading
Words, the right ones, ripe and engorged, outgrow the necessary dark inside you and, abiding the laws of catch and release, demand light, air, voice. Beware atrophy, the root killer, and do not leave language, ingrown, unattended.
To follow your bliss you must kiss your demons squarely on their mouths lancing their sealed lips with a flaming tongue perpetrating tango between worlds where love consumes every last thorny bit.
Stranger to near self, he tracked existential crumbs to a chance verdict. (Photo of Albert Camus by Henri Cartier-Bresson)
I’ve been waiting for you to exist, I say to my father, even though he is not there. What? I’ve been waiting for you to exist, to become real. Me too. What the hell are you … Continue reading
The out of womb blues, torch song on code red alert– Slow burning for home.
