Tag Archives: Poetry

There is No Curtain

Forever and ever is the asking price and promise the singer made to the song conjugal atomic bliss siring the I that right now is speaking singularly on behalf of the song and singer forever and ever.

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Dust in the Wind

Much here is caked in dust. Dust-skinned dogs and dust-skinned horses. Dust-coated houses in ruin, the staccato of ruins, the oldlife song of decay, dreams move sluggishly here at the pace of dust, the swirling eddies of dust, dust in … Continue reading

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From scratch, we dig out what we think the moon owes us– Lore of attraction.

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All these stories– Fireflies in a garden, on a moonless night.

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Tablatures of light engraved in your palms by eyeless angels once upon a time when yes was yes and waves were forms serve as source citation while hosting vividly the fact that your hands are the temples which can be … Continue reading

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Days of Mourning

She wasn’t sure how she had become days of mourning. It began with a pall, a thick viscous scrim that changed what she saw, sawed herself into halves and quarters and post-dissection she noticed days had turned into weeks into … Continue reading

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To the Lighthouse

Here it is, finally. A séance for the living, real-time cinema for possessed bones and sad visionless ghosts, who are on the cusp of claiming their spacious reams of empty, and time-locked vagrancy. The door behind the door has never … Continue reading

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Sound and the Furies

My novel, The Last Furies, was partly inspired by the life, legend and poetic reckoning of the Symbolist brat-prince, Arthur Rimbaud. As a hybrid work, that is both an endless remix of a novel and a sorcerer’s cryptic handbook, the … Continue reading

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Nipples don’t Kill

In the feral country of nipples,where she-wolves raisetheir pups to howl unashamedlyat the moon,many many men,unconsciously ensnaredin puritanical roots,fear, scorn and revilethe mystery of the female nipple,its organic promise of milk and eternitytoo vagrantly radiantfor many many men’s eyes to … Continue reading

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The Source

For mothers everywhere: Their hearts, registeredas infinite beacons,have gone gentlyand luminously into nightsnot so good and pitch-black, bravingflytrap folds and god-awful rowsto soothe, mend andrestore the bruised vitalsof daughters and sons;they go, infused with bright rage,green force driving homenocturnes and … Continue reading

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