A Russian summer, nostalgic and dreamy, textured and spare, Bunin's landscape and lovers - all under the sun, in sunflower fields, awaiting inevitable snow... awaiting, perhaps, the exile's return from Paris, from Nobel - like Gorky, poor Gorky, the dead son, the shuttered villa... ("I dare say it's time for all us nineteenth century writers … Continue reading Russian Idyll
Category: Creative Writing
Eh…
These things I warrant, and see, these ghosts, aspirations and hopes these fading things. My eyes, in a cracked mirror. This ghost, clattering... I talk so fucking fast. A poet of listicles. Shallower than Plath. No clue where my inner Prufrock sits. As if there could be another... Failure, to be clear, bounced repetitive, just … Continue reading Eh…
Desert Son
Some hidden memory, of your time in the womb - your small thoughts flashing, dreaming of desert dancers and gyring dust. A soon to be birthing majnūn, A mum's janīn, the bitter surprising result of tousled sheets and nights with a nomadic bar back... The brooding, bastard boy - restless hands, like his father, curdled … Continue reading Desert Son
A Ballerina, On a Shaking Shore
for W. C. Williams, and some others There is a flickering of midnight torches along the edges of Atlantic beaches, these shuttering retreats, ghosted fall houses of Eastham, Wellfleet's quiet drive-in, Truro's barque emerging above the waterline. Oh, Newman, what bitter jokes, and shambling hallos you wave, across a rocky continent, toes that know Pacifica … Continue reading A Ballerina, On a Shaking Shore
Dark Waters
On the banks of the enormous Oguta lake we buried the dead, we buried the memories of the living, and the dead. The Black Scorpion scuttling On the banks of the enormous Oguta lake. Oh goddess, oh Uhamiri, we see you in the mists that rise - thin fingers grasping at the sun to pull … Continue reading Dark Waters
I Would Show You
I would show you how the wind measures each mile of dust sweeps across the edges pierced by missiles caressing the wounded and the dead I would show you how to fold flags as the wind billows the fabric into the martyrs quarters, West Bank, carries the scent of krass cooking in Gaza, the repetitive … Continue reading I Would Show You
Equitare Viae Liberum
You are my road. Drawing me away from duty, from purpose, urging me with signs, both clever and obtuse, to roll onto you, take your endless paths and ways, these promises of salvation, change, of adventure without compromise, nor guilt. Begging me to ride you, to be consumed by you. How you rise and fall … Continue reading Equitare Viae Liberum
A Rapture
like a cat... lithe limbed, long torsoed, strutting across my path, that glance... and I am caught up in your scent, musk, your nails like claws now digging into skin, bloody gashes along my back... fierce bites - half-moons rising along my shoulders, my breath in yours, backs arching... screams in alleyways, bedrooms boardrooms... you … Continue reading A Rapture
Deva Victrix
A shrine carved from rock, her face - now flesh molded by wind, by years - still worthy of worship, eyes upon her war, upon yours, her martial song is the wind that carves... (skin of night, lean cheek, flinted eyes, blood-filled lips parting) the last time... she only moaned that song - and then … Continue reading Deva Victrix
Plato’s Plate Glass
I am sitting by a wall of glass, harbor outside, wind, lightning and thunder and rain and in each flash I see you next to me, that it's just a camera flash moment, sudden capture, still.... you are next to me. You're not tying one on with Tisiphone tonight, no... you're here. I'm there. We … Continue reading Plato’s Plate Glass
Writer Moe 