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.
Tag: Writer
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
Brodsky Complications
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
1998
Boy watching a bubble fall, rise, fall. Breathing with it, leaning into it. Lost in a fall, lost, then caught in a rise. Down, up Air out, air in. Breathe out, breathe in. Soap bubble, caught on breath, a life caught in movie frames scattered across the bubble's curve. That other boy, doppelgänger, 31 years … Continue reading 1998
We Haiku
the forests curved path your warm breath mixing with mine kiss in dappled light
I Am a Rocking Child, Rolling
I am contained by spit and bailing wire, the old go-cart knocked together from peach crates, roller skates, an old wooden skate affixed with bent nails to peach-stained slats. Rocking down hills, round hairpin turns, skipping cracks and gaps. Memory. Bailing wire and gum, glue, thoughts of you. Cocksure and unafraid. Rickety with memory, bound by … Continue reading I Am a Rocking Child, Rolling
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
There Is a Thing
To be said, about love. Birthed in the shadow of the rock, a daughter of Tyre thou art my hiding place dozing, salamander curled, nose to tail, fire banked, ready for the warm breath of a lover on newly discovered flesh. … Continue reading There Is a Thing
Safe as Houses
stood out, the thief in a mill, safer than mice in cheeses. if it please, then, he still didn't find it, that needle the traveler was peddling, pulling him back outside, boredom a dangerous enemy now met in a narrow street. skipped blithely by the praying pirate, and ran into debt for a little wisdom, … Continue reading Safe as Houses
In the Night Gardens
It's now past midnight, it's time to sleep. Heart a bang drumming, slowing, boom boom boom. Eyes closing like bloodroots, at the loss of the sun, dreams staining lovers minds, while restless nights bring open dreams, nottinghams that bloom, creep up castle walls. We seek brahma kamal, Bhima's quest and elusive bloomer, wish fulfiller, dream … Continue reading In the Night Gardens
Writer Moe 