Tag Archives: Poetry
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.
It was the way she talked about rain pouring down from between her thighs like liquid snakes bottomless in their appetite for razors and new skin that made me think and think again about shedding through the slake of fire.
Sometimes, even the light, in its radiant parry and thrust, needs to be laid down, in order to receive, openly, the starried lull of brokenness.
Beneath the cauterized furies, and unspent silences, amounting to greater deficit, there is, and always has been, at heart’s nimbus base, a soft, wistful melancholy, not unlike the adagio threads of rain silvering the opened palms of a small child, … Continue reading
The child in me the fire carrier has always wanted to love big with no barriers or wind tunnels or bubble-clots to gum up the flow. I think maybe this is the Paradise whose greenest tips I have grazed and … Continue reading
The sound, the fury, and brassy racket the multitudes within have made on my behalf, or fractures to mend, yet my heart, bare in its asking and grievous wants, resounds its measureless bask to innocence with no end or fixed … Continue reading
Today the glass is half empty full of singing void and fire me cutting my teeth on the rim tonguing rapaciously at spiked air clenching at the impossible slake if only I could swallow smooth as grace this bitter seethe … Continue reading
They kill poets in these parts don’t they? When I got here I saw Walt Whitman’s wizened head out back impaled on a stake flies buzzing round its concomitant rot and stench I heard one of the locals say it … Continue reading