Three squirrel call my yard home, I name them Taw, Khon, At - They require little tact, just seed and corn, and to be left alone. They tend to acorns, nuts, seem to have time enough to pause, read the sky, watch clouds scudding by. I watch them from window, doors. Just as minnows score … Continue reading An Egyptian Fall
Tag: Arts
Nimrod’s Lips
Broken. All my words broken. Asunder and cracking. A slinger hurling stone against my forehead, Breaking me. I had one language; and this I began to do: Nothing was restrained from me, which I had imagined to do. Now, my thoughts, like a people speaking the same language, scattered. You came down. Confounded my language. … Continue reading Nimrod’s Lips
Dead Loving Office
A mail carrier, a postie, a letter carrier Walked into a bar. Smittie wiped his rag slowly down the bar, one eye on the newcomer, the other in the mirror, debating how he'd parted his hair that morning. (It had been a tortuous argument, between him and himself, the comb dancing from left side to … Continue reading Dead Loving Office
Oh, Oppressive (for Augusto Boal)
You hit me / like Boal / hit women. My love. Imagine my surprise.
Some Growth
Midnight. The minute hand clicks to the right, underscores the hour. Outside second story tenement, a car passes through puddles, beams of light passing over bedroom walls, ceiling. The tick tock of the clock. The scratching of the mice. 3 am. Guns snap in the alley, there are moans. Quietly close, and lock the window. Grip … Continue reading Some Growth
The Master Stroke Against the Memoir
Who do I admire? Who inspires, teaches me - who blows my perceptions apart and offers me new ones? Not confessional writers. I don't find memoirs, or poetry that's purely about the poet, all that interesting. A Winged Dream was likely the last time I'll get that personal, and it was more about me getting … Continue reading The Master Stroke Against the Memoir
Writer Moe 