Tag: creative writing
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
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
Attic. Dusty Boxes.
I do not know which is worse. Finding a personal, loving letter from someone you cannot seem to remember. Or Finding a personal, loving letter from someone you cannot seem to forget.
Almost got to touch you, tonight. Caracal... you purr. Cat. Nails. Some light scratch. Tail slipping through grass. Almost got to touch you.
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
Happier Not Throwing
I am running across the dunes falling down the sand, with the flow. You are below, around, behind, I don’t know, mother, father… …you are flowing across the sand with me, away from me, it’s all shifting so smoothly. Once, when I was 8 or 9, (Maybe 10) You took me into the record books, … Continue reading Happier Not Throwing
d'Artagnan... is restless. Once, he wandered onstage, admired Cyrano's quick blade and cutting wit. Then found a musket ball at Maastricht, and wandered off. Some say mothballed at Wolder, others wandering the New World, mayhap Boston's where he found his feet. Perhaps soon caressing a lover of books. Wondering what she'll whisper when she dances … Continue reading Brodsky Complications
A Muddy of Colors
There is a dissipating storm slipping over the tips of the Alps. A broken man begging coins in Houston. A potter with shaking fingers, no longer mending in Calcutta. My shadow eluding me in dark Boston alleyways. Your eyes are headlamps, mirrored windows, light flashes behind my eyelids. There is a snake, listless, long, and leering, at … Continue reading A Muddy of Colors