Happy birthday (March 12th), Jack Kerouac! My poem from Arclight honoring the man behind the mythical scrolls. When I was a young man, a budding scribe eager to blossom white fire, and scabbed lotuses, you meant the world to me. … Continue reading
The sea, as alchemist, storyteller, artist, and instant mythmaker all rolled into one, has no equal. Here we find an abstract shoreline flower, whipped up from silt and minerals and other Neptunal residue, and bearing a wellplaced stoneface of magnetic … Continue reading
Wherever there is a time-scarred stone stairwell, there is the wandersick soul of Orpheus, forever walking backwards in search of his Eurydice, her heart the lost season in a hell of imagined distance.
History, written by the wingless, selling secondhand feathers to falsify flight’s truest course; turn a sharp eye to the sun, Birds of Paradise, arc, plein air, to claim in transit the legends of west wind.
There is, perhaps, nothing truer than the myth of one’s own innerlife, a revolution, rapt and lidless, the carnivalesque autobiography of spirit, endlessly turning upon, and twinning within, the Soul’s vanguard and prehistory, unsigned.
Forget about it I said it’s fire under the bridge and watched from a distance as the flames and smoke rose over the sea as if Dante’s infernal take on the Birth of Venus.
I have never been to Paris, and so I must write about my time there, how Hemingway threw the gauntlet at my feet and challenged me to an armwrestling match three times, beating me each and every time, and Hemingway … Continue reading
It was only when her thighs caught fire that he began to understand the laws of arson as practiced by goddesses imitating sirens.
Mermaid in torn jeans, sea glistening on her knees- Your myth is safe with me.
How little they know, of her flights beyond reason– Her world, winged, widens. (Artwork by Izumi Yokoyama)
