I will pick a blue flower. # The old one sits in a vase. Navy blue, blackened, dry crumbs, as if pressed inside an old book. A little life clings to its edges, a lingering glow. Mother nibbles at these fresh parts, the fresh… Continue Reading “Still Life (A Myth)”
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”
—-“Is it her singing that enchants us or is it not rather the solemn stillness enclosing her frail little voice?” -Franz Kafka I know the place he visits…those melodies. Songs like children that make sure you never forget your heart. I’ve tangled with them,… Continue Reading “My Father’s Mouse”
‘Twas the vinegar that tippeth Toward the leftover quiche Oh, lonely empty bottle, recycler boon When sun meets to kiss moon— And mustard, your yellows bold A bit old, but still at play— Mummified lime, plastic lined Awaits blessed water of the fizzy kind—… Continue Reading “Emily Dickinson’s Refrigerator”
The apparition of these fare inspectors in the crowd; Donuts with icing, cream filled full.
The voiceless have built a city within this city, structures embedded within the grid, pulled together by patchwork—cloth, tent, sawdust floor and plastic sheet. You’re there, measuring your life in coffee spoons, on that same street, right next to them. You see… Continue Reading “T.S. Eliot Bumps Into A Second Person”