Tag Archives: Literary
Escape from sadness in every breath you take– bouquet of balloons.
Another Red Dawn or Day of the Living Dead? Shit, old scripts die hard.
In his solemn hour, the clown’s last laugh was soundless– loss of an outlet.
Review of Mary V. Dearborn’s Ernest Hemingway, appearing in the new issue of Riot Material. “Can I believe myself as others believe me to be? Here is where these lines become a confession in the presence of my unknown and … Continue reading
Brooklyn, 1957, shotgun postcard glory and grain of bygone, brick-backed, bathing-capped great aunts I never knew, Josie and Anna-Mae, sirens modeling sass and moxie on a hot summer’s day before the sun went down.
The hidden newsprint of the universe and its unreported sorrows carried on the shoulders and in the heart of a young woman on a bike who pedals with furious intent between blurred and urgent breaks of line.
Upon a citrus-infused sky, bright and sorry, the dance of acidic vapors and serpentine ravels, assuming the burden of a faceless woman, basking
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.
Excerpt from Nocturne Variations: I think, the bottom line, Piers, is that one’s protector is or can become one’s destroyer. Angels are monsters in wait, same as monsters are angels awaiting transformative context. The two are one and to divide … Continue reading
Starstruck, and wrestling within mortal coils, God’s lucid fame overshadows the cast of our solitary arc.