The Ninth

This body, a river splitting deep woods,a rushing babble over rounded pebbles.The doe lowering her head, takes drink,arching sinuous neck that reflects in ripple water.That neck in memory, fevered dreams -arching back and forth, hair whipping.Your knees bent alongside rising hips,this river splitting your fragrant wood.

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

Horse Hair Skier

Your nails still refuse to drag along my skin. Snow leopard. You... Your nails retracted, tongue curled, folded. Padding away into a mountains dark crevices. Where I, kokburu player, goat tosser extraordinaire, mad skier across Tuvan skies, lasso in hand and elk before me... am still not allowed to pursue. My rope whipping out, unanswered, quivering, inept.

Air

Scudding in metal tubes, breathing in recycled breaths. Spinning turnstiles, merry go rounds, bladed pinwheels. My hands cut open by edged receipts, boarding passes, desperate sketches from forlorn children... missed baseball games, concerts, birthdays and... that soup of missed connections, strange coin, the stares of strangers. Uncomfortable fat neighbor spilling over armrest, we're moaning as … Continue reading Air

We Are in Manic House, Operational and Compromised

Boom, then sounds like shattering glass, fragments of glass, plinking sounds carried on the wind. Boom. Agitated,  the city, men with guns rummaging around yards, snipers on rooftop, jumbles of green, black, blue. Shooting. Shooting past walls, reason resistance. Men are hunters, men are chaos shooting. Bombing. Shattering glass. Helicopters split the air, float and … Continue reading We Are in Manic House, Operational and Compromised

Subjective Grey Matter

Bartholemew expected better - he told K so, in uncertain terms (the voice wavered, of course, doing the immaterial boogaloo). K had taken the wheel, was drifting around the road, crossing lanes with abandon "There's nobody on the road!" gleeful shouting, wide eyed, hair twisting like opposed electrons, wandering along opposite turns - "Look, Locke - … Continue reading Subjective Grey Matter