Her brittle old tortoise shell prescriptions Blur a head of softly graying curls He needs a cut, she whispers, always to herself. Anyone in or not in the grocery store line that afternoon. Recognizing Cantaloupe, honeydew, whole milk Lettuce heads and newly sprouted wheat, and Baby spinach asleep in the sway of her basket. A… Read More Facial Blindness*
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
In cloudy skies we can point to everything,
To find similarity and we described it
In high school English to empty the milk cartons of meaning.
Gentlemen reflect in receding ice cubes and
Swinging across Elm into urbanite cock fights.
Floating, melting into her whiskey colored eyes
The missus distributes disambiguated dinners
With a side of dry rye wit… Read More Three and Counting
A blue velvet bag opened by this single Movement – her hand reached Into the spaciousness above And all stars’ light unpacked, and Secreted away in drawer full of daydreams. Now the seashore glistens With the promise of night, and Eternally luminous With all the befores, And all the ever afters, Moving our millions of tears Into a single smiling river. “Goodnight my beautiful bodies,” And we fly away home, laughing.… Read More Fly Away Home, Blessed Body