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!
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”
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”
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”
The streets have no direction, no destination. They wind back into themselves, while they take her… somewhere… she’s never been. She looks at a map of the city, it would appear to be simple, small, within a defined space. On the streets is a… Continue Reading “Lost City”
Clackamas River, August 2019