Tag Archives: Writing

Deva Victrix, Oral-Aural Riffing

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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 … Continue reading

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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.

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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 … Continue reading

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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 … Continue reading

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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 … Continue reading

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We Haiku

the forests curved path your warm breath mixing with mine kiss in dappled light

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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 … Continue reading

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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 … Continue reading

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Your Hands, On Me

My cracks/ You fill them with gold. Turn me in your hands.

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