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. … Read More Absolutely Late, Lately: Adding up the Moment(s) of Terminal Cancer
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… Read More Look into My Crystal Ball, or The Writer as Telepath
Riding passenger side snapping right, I’m down in front stealing long exposures. From the back seat our youth sits Mocking us with instant polaroids. Destroyed pictures of minutes and memory Precious and precarious slip a stone At once here and at once gone. Right under the driver breaks hard and higher Up another mile, silently… Read More Eventide
I find all the sunshine ever shined,
Filtered through my forests, my pin pupil eyes.
And I, without permission,
Acting out against all advice –
Finally stare into the sun.… Read More Present Perfect