Running on empty every voice wondered where its body had gone.
In a starless sky, night hastens to remind us– Ghosts pass softly, fade.
(Excerpt from Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale) I closed my notebook and sat motionless at my desk for a long while, feeling flat and infirm. Then, not able to put it off any longer, it was time to disengage my … Continue reading
(Excerpt from Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale) I am standing over myself: a runt-skinny kid lying flat on his stomach, right elbow hunched, the stubby pencil in his left hand ferociously scribbling on a piece of unlined white paper. … Continue reading
In the shrine that we build for first kisses, lies the furloughed still-warm lips of Childhood’s ghosts, forever puckering to seal love, airtight in its untold lore and claim to rose.
Hungry ghosts, gorging, moon-bellied, rending gristle from earthly scavenge— my god, these monsters and their appetites, swallowing illusions whole, to feed empty its runes of fire.
The warring, within, ended. No one won. White flags, adorning the masts of souls, became the rage and pacific vogue. Ghosts kissed demons, demons kissed children, children blew kisses into the air, christening echoes. I woke up, sudden to my … Continue reading
Each spring they return, bound to renew small wonders– Innocent by turns. (Artwork by Izumi Yokoyama)
Nutrition fact: Did you know that windows like to eat writers who diet on silence and dust-motes, they swallow the writers whole, or in fragments, devouring them slowly, ever so slowly, until all that remains is a ghost, where a … Continue reading
