I wrote myself some love poems today, outlined in sun near the ocean’s smile. The waves beat down upon charcoal rocks and up frothed a great many minerals. I absorbed them all, flesh-first, like the fern drinks in the rain. I loved myself with pen and with sun; when thirsty, I drank; when hungry, I ate; when sleepy, I slept—and felt no reason … Read More Self Serving
Be patient, and write long. As long as the strokes of your eye lashes pulse the fingers to keys, then both of us remain alive. Be patient. Your dreams have no anchors; let them float light. Let the throat grow easy and jaw relax. Open and close the hinges of your mouth and feel the knobs of your shoulders merge with the elbows. … Read More Write Long
At the top of the outcrop I sat with my knee-bones tight to my chest— the river undulated below, swirling in shades of blues and yellows refracted light on stones of marble the guttural current cut the cliff to slices–jagged & twisted and
Three cheers of a dusted dawn; electric angels sweep the streets, and light clouds skip stones against the still lavender waters of the canal. Earth sings her morning tune, low and orange against the cool palm breeze. Creation calms and tells me I must start today from the inside. No half expressions.
Collapsing I tucked my head against my chest and listened to my heart beat. Strong it whispered and my ego faltered and I could hear the ego falter— and I, faltering, briefly exposed an open window to torrential rain marooned against a million chairs held up hardly at all. The trick is always to let the rain in and the carpet go.
Surely it can’t all be cast to the tan lines. The sun—our cicerone across this celestial plane, casting her silhouettes upon skin shapes etch-a-sketching that which we outfit ourselves with— Surely. That can’t be it. Because I see him
Two final footsteps echoed against the scratched glass door & off we were— murmuring swampy lives away, lobbing for ourselves the God-given champagne against the bobbing she-queen, Queen of the Nile. Life was in bubbles, great wads of the stuff, tacky & sweet and still criss-crossed in hot-blooded pen— the deeper we burrowed in our footstep murmurs, the deeper we saw; until the … Read More The Gradual Shelf of the Sea