Today I woke to the pulsing ribbed memory of that night you wore nothing except a knotted bodice of white flags, and my mouth, prey to your body’s religion, submitted gospel as a savage flagrant reform to amen. Advertisements
Perfection, this life’s greatest untruth and maligner, see how ice cream summer-melts and runs like happy magma down the ridged wonders of a waffle cone clutched by a child like an edible prayer destined to disappear, one bite at a … Continue reading
There is the snake and there is the amen and perhaps there’s not really much difference between the two. Like you, and the moon, and how my longing bleeds a fugitive overlap, i.e, where exactly does the queenly orb of … Continue reading
It is hard to believe, but after years and years of clawing with bitten nails, and digging with torn palms, in the heart of a stone she found the babybluest wisps of cloud, soft nimbus music, to which she tendered … Continue reading
Unbridled, the holy seethe, touching upon lips, to reinvent the kiss as barest gospel.
Language, a living currency and greening force, gospel and amorphic in its leanings toward the freest and most daring aspects of your imagination, well beyond margins, syntax, and staid forms.
Everyone’s dark is coming up and it isn’t going to be pretty, as well it shouldn’t be. Beauty, as a rugged force, as thorny swaths of dream-thistles, blooms through night-fasting, and respiring enclosures of dark. Beauty marks the hidden faith … Continue reading
By solitude’s star, on any given night, a twinning may occur to praise phenomena, our bodies, alight, infused with never-ending gospel.
Yardbird’s singed solo, wings crisped to perfect measure– fly now, pray later.
It is the quiet history of touch, tendered through years of symmetry and fable, a radiant pulsing in the spaces between fingers, holy derived, charging us to mercy and enclosure.
