It is scary once you realize that the past can be changed, and that the future is fixed, a rigged absolute. Knowing that changes everything. And what about the present? For some the present is intolerable cruelty, unimpeachable company. For … Continue reading
The sun, like a brandied dream, slips away beneath the world’s ending, or beginning, same difference, by the sea’s ancient gauge and meter.
Nostalgia, backlit by a warm, gashing flare, scoring Time’s passage.
Long ago, slowly crossing the bridge in winter– Footprints in fresh snow. (Artwork by Hiroshige)
Craft. Tactile homage, and respect to craft, its inviolable depths and integrity, to approach craft as you would a fertile god, to practice, radically, at its altar, to consecrate with marked intent, and to know in your heart’s heart that … Continue reading
Inevitable, the vortex calling her back– Little girl’s first loss. (Photo by Heather Ross)
One thing we cannot recover is time. And perhaps every writer, as a fugitive stalker, as a fool-hero on a desperate quest, sets himself this glorious, impossible task, the solvent recovery of time through the mortal fetters of a merciful … Continue reading
I awoke early and took my sweet time getting ready to exist in the way and who I wanted to become.
Moon turning blood-red, tides roiling, writer signs crosses to stand Time’s test, sound and fury bridled through carnal lightning and soil of pen.
There is no waiting, not really. Only bated suspension between commas, axles and imports; the spaces between lovers lie in fertile fields fed by small gods and nameless faeries who, by sacred squalls of weeping, consecrate the soil’s underlying reap. … Continue reading
