A poem inspired by Yoko Ono’s “Cleaning Piece.” At the carnival I was most intrigued by the stone-swallower. A waifish bronze-skinned lady with dark hair, plaited, and slender fingers. I was rapt, watching the way she carefully arranged the stones … Continue reading
At the carnival I was most intrigued by the stone-swallower. A waifish bronze-skinned lady with dark hair, plaited, and slender fingers. I was rapt, watching the way she carefully arranged the stones to form a sort of pyramid at her … Continue reading
It is the filigreed static, and effluvient roar of the water nymphs choral concert, which numinously orders the light and stones to conspire, and function as delegates of symmetry.
She told me, and I quote: “As a pagan-gnostic-pop-mystic, my religion is kissing– the ground, stones, twigs, children’s nubby fingers, hems of clothing, mouths.” To prove her word devout, she kissed me on the lips, then deeper, and I received … Continue reading
At the blank altar, a woman swallowed hard truths– no stone left unturned.
Fantail of spraylight, touching upon gray matter– stones gather to pray.
The heavy lifting of prayers unturned to first light– to each stone, a hand.
In the beginning, there were no words.
At the carnival I was most intrigued by the stone-swallower. A waifish bronze-skinned lady with dark hair, plaited, and slender fingers. I was rapt, watching the way she carefully arranged the stones to form a sort of pyramid at her … Continue reading
