Category: Portraits

Words can paint, each letter, a bristle of a brush. The sentence becomes a stroke. Paragraphs shape objects. A portrait needs no beginning, middle, or end. When we look deep at a painting, we can’t help but wonder why the Mona Lisa smiles. If you look deep enough at portraits, close enough to pick out desire, they jump out of the frame. The frame is the story. Break out! Break out!

Love Letters

She’s a tangent, planting words in wild rows that release constant seeds, adrift, landing upon her skin, a skin she reads to herself. Her heartbreak, an apocalypse of reincarnations, dust on the floor, dry paper, bits, clumps, wheat lost from the chaff, molded to… Continue Reading “Love Letters”

Bough

  (click on image to enlarge.)        

Indeterminate

Click on image to enlarge. More images can be found here.          

Silent Friendship

The deer mouse comes out, when the night covers the entire sky.   Through foliage, appearing in little instants, eyes gleaming black, tail flying behind him. He’s in the peripheral of your flashlight as his jump crests the undergrowth. His business, a serious endeavor,… Continue Reading “Silent Friendship”

Utterance

The road—a language. The forest—a heart. Two voices. Both twist around mountains Where one can lose oneself Or be found.          

Destinations

Work From rain and melted snow To find a way to the creek. To a stream, in a hurried dash to the ocean   And here I stand, with bits of waterfalls trapped, inside buckets. My shoes.   Soggy, wicking socks Make close friends… Continue Reading “Destinations”

Cruel River

This river runs cruel… This river runs cold. I know she’s lost in this wilderness, where the lakes are silent, dampened by snow. Here, she walks on the edge of everything.   This river will meet the sea, that’s where all lies cease, for… Continue Reading “Cruel River”

The High Lakes

The high lakes, frozen, clear, Distort reflections of the mountain.   Old men with trekking poles Filter through the forest.   All with some form of Achilles And Homeric hunger pangs.   Drawn to recite soliloquies To the unmoving cold.   Return to the… Continue Reading “The High Lakes”

Alice

She sets a folded towel upon cool sheets, her ass makes a depression on the mattress. Silence is never a full-proof method of understanding each other, even if hands are involved. They touch, then they talk. Talking is never a full-proof method of… His… Continue Reading “Alice”

A Cold Bridge

On freezing nights when the river settles, the reflection of city lights is clearer than the real lights. She views this better on the bridge, her winter pilgrimage. Colder than the air, she grips its handrail. Her hands pull away only at the moment… Continue Reading “A Cold Bridge”

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