The brain — beholding itself brashly with chords of wrought-iron wrinkles — quietly slips underneaththe sheets, far enough under to savor flavors of cottony cool. Growing quiet, it lingers in silence; the wash of fresh nothing permeatesthe underside of the cotton sheet. Light breeze sweepsagainst brain, cool and sweet, gentle coursing of blood flowing, symbiosis. Big breath — if brains could breathe —
Underwater my limbs waver in front of me — gently, muscularly, I exhaust the oceanscrubbing raw against the salt flakes, crystal abovethe bleached coral. Clinical cleanliness, writing before you read, style, speaking before you think. Mercy plays in opposites: monk seals recliningdecked out in caution tape; whole beaches receding and the distance between the islands increasing.
Were the days but an inch longer,I could have said all I wanted& reached the sun by now. Instead,I grope for the light switch – clampingmy eyes when it comes on. Blinded!Always blinded – like frogs in thehot desert, crashing through coarse sandhalf-way rustic and rightly stunned.Checkmarks pierce my paper soul andyet not fast enough for cruel pen. Boxes futile, ever growingoutweigh my sense of … Read More Life in a Vacuum
Parched. Parched like the texture of Egyptian papyrus the holy lands scribbling away at my bottom lip. I am abandoned. Have been. That is, not in some measureto deserve attention, but in the manner of being completely free. That within me which soothes the aching self flies and joins her soul to willow, one city park over. My grunting aches fire out, eventuallyno longer gasping for attention, no longer … Read More This is a Dream I Tell No One
Damn that which holds itself accountable in my error— if I could escape I’dsing, freely sing, but alas can’t. Rarely does time tick for me. Low saxophone wailsfrom the wine cellars, the unzipped tent inthe meadow wet with evening dew. Tripped upand spit out, floundering like a struck fishunder Dunedin flashlight. I am Plathwithout the oven. The bread I bake looksback at me, eyes of mirrors, … Read More Fishers of Men
I have found the reason for living in a town like this, our doorstep perpetually dusted with buttery sand and mountain leaves brought in by a single sweep from the balcony. The sweet sea air circles the windows like a cat with her mouse or the roach with his drain. Curiosity comes and goes. Frolicsome play at one with it all. A fine day, with rooster … Read More Pacific Call to Prayer
For the ones who whistle while uprooting pineapplesor clambering over basalt sculptures up Mauna Kea; for the ones who tuck belly flesh into red shorts and walk the ocean on yellow planks; for the ones who slide on earthen pine needlescascading loose rocks down Mount Olympus; I see the wallowing faces in the canal reflection. Where, then, is paradise? Between the lines of gritted sweat … Read More Where, Then, is Paradise?