Wanting more time before it’s all over leads me down the rabbit hole into a place where I get lost. Lost inside a book, a song, a sunrise, a hug, a poem I’m writing, a memory, or a hope for something in a future that can at any moment be cut like a scene in an editors office from a films final print. I’m not lost on my path, though. It’s winding and it’s convoluted and full of time that I’ve somehow let slip by.
The blank page: at times a writer’s inanimate nemesis. The written output, the writer’s words lend themselves to an infinite life with inasmuch potential. This simple premise suggests a complex hypothesis: a writer’s output can bridge the gap between art and science, alchemy and physics, space and time. The writer becomes a telepath sending messages
Riding passenger side, I snap shots Winding up, down in front Stability taking on long exposures. From the back seat youth mocks Our separated falconer’s aging grace. Two instant polaroids, twins Destroyed by pictures of memory. Precious and precarious, sliding There once, here once, Then at once gone again. Right heel dug into the floorboard,