Hidden, in full view of shadows well-fitted to be worn out at day’s end, the young girl bared herself to the woman she would become, years before love lifted then wrecked her sworn passage home. (Image of Marguerite Duras, … Continue reading
Those who fall from the moon bear the length of their exile with tender lyrical turns of being, a fool’s minuet, chaste as it is fleeting. (Artwork by Georges Rouault)
Excerpt from No Man’s Brooklyn: I come from nowhere Daniel, and nowhere is the exact center of the world. Isn’t that exciting? I agreed with Anya that it was, even though I wasn’t sure what she meant. And I … Continue reading
I am a young boy, fated to innocence, walking through the lavender mist of Time’s softly slipped dream, every grain of sand a stitch in the marvel of kingdom’s comely veil.
My desire to feel God is the same as the child’s dreamlipped desire to kiss the red kite bobbing and arcing far and away tethered to his wrist a wordless prayer given over to wind and sky.
The white rose, impaled, knows itself beyond nomenclature and perish, inviolably Pure, a longing to feel the spring wind, and its alluvial fingers, upon bruised petals, fallen.
Adore, the charmed offspring of Love’s prickly liason with Innocence before it ripens and falls.
Peter Pan’s Jesus complex turns flights of fancy into guilty pleasures, sacred geometry into zero accountability, stillborn freezes into high, happy fevers, starling charms into martyred alibis, deeply felt distances into shallow runs of intimacy, and yet beneath all the … Continue reading
Blindly, blindly, blindly, she reaps every choice from my scythe and asking. I live with brute innocence and murder in her heart. I am not her child, I am her fiction, her sad fable and paling wrath.
Pale girl’s greenest grief, fleeced by soft seedless petals– Hands blooming to freeze.
