Because his middle name was Valentine, a V-Day tribute poem to that “boy from Brooklyn,” Mr. Henry Valentine Miller, from my book Arclight. Some men rattle their chains and wonder, some sing them. Then there are others who spray paint … Continue reading
Some men rattle their chains and wonder, some sing them. Then there are others who spraypaint their chains rainbow siege and dance a jig like a peacock on fire, and when someone asks Isn’t it hard to dance around with … Continue reading
Alighted, to course sweetly toward benign silence– To mend, flowers kiss. (Watercolor by Henry Miller)
Henry’s cell, his first ever, gave rise to a new breed of anxiety and impatience. Fretfully awaiting Anais’s text, he stared at the dark electronic device cradled in his palm, and keenly felt pangs of nostalgia. He recalled … Continue reading
With center in place, growth happens behind our backs– the cosmos abides.
To lance a staid form, with crab-claws bent on rupture– How masters shift course.
Kindred spirit-play, by voice, a million worn pages– currency of love.
By cyclical turns, the simplest revolution– joy rides forever.
Regarding Henry, he made of our wreckage, fuel– June burned in the fire.
In burning karma, what goes around comes around– Angels bear logic.
