"It makes my panties wet, When you get literary like that" So I locked eyes with her, And out rolled... "Proust"
Category: Writing
spring flingin’
This is just to say that I am in the back yard there's a red breasted robin feeding 5 feet away, a woodpecker upside down at the same feeder and a burning red cardinal sitting not far above. Their songs call back and forth, as far in the distance a hawk beats wings towards the … Continue reading spring flingin’
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
offer(ing)s
Sometimes... a drawing bow
Lost Intruments
Am I alone in obsessing over the fate of Astrolabe? -Martin Burns
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.
Iconic
When you painted me eggs for breakfast, the little cute ones - smiley faces, mustached, some crowned some done up on little crucifixes made of bone, sinew, spit and tears, my first reaction was one of hollow, righteous indignation, rage. I wanted to hurl them at the sky, smash passing birds, distract airplanes and bring … Continue reading Iconic
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
Writer Moe 