Then there will be a sound,the thunder across the water,the cracking of the ice,the cackle of the clairvoyant -the whistle in a dark alleyAnd the sudden stopof ticking clocksBunin’s rageat marital order,Nin’s heatalong a geographic border -But, where does it begin?Whose voice is that, callingout along the river?What footsteps drag and dredge,quiver and disorderordered stones … Continue reading the echoing shore
Tag: Writing
a river in my hands
Rattling around…rattling around…somewhere in my head thissound is rattling,breathing, likea living thing…. This sound, breathingmurmuring…living river,which tumbles rocks,carries white, rising foamand eager swimmers This river full,life, verdant, green rootsgrasses on the bank,the slippering, long, thickfishwriggling into the muck,riding the curves, the… Water flowing, veinsof blood, of water,coursing through wantonbeating, ragingheart,this primal ride,the murmur risingto screamraging, … Continue reading a river in my hands
Deva Victrix, Oral-Aural Riffing
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.
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.
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
The Nasturtium Leaving the Suburban Cineraria, Silently
Horus on the beach, bank of the Nile. Chatting up a slumming Sumerian spring spirit. Summer no time for vengeance, just seeding. Tony making time with Cleo, Bob drunk, beating Alice again. The old postman moaning "howdy". Passing secrets on the side-streets of the small town we all tear down daily, in our good-time daydreams.
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
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
