Capital

you reach out a hand to pull sky down the stars, yes the heavens themselves are but bread to you, so break it, break it all upon the ground, shake this broken universe until it begs for release from the ungodly bass of your voice; your ego polishes its own brass to trumpet a truth…Read more Capital

Pores

The world gets into our pores and writes on us lines with the clay of earth, warmth of sun bite of wind caress ; sorrow & joy clog our faces with our insides, the experience of our lived Grind:connected. Existentially, we are slow-born sculptures that tell of a daring hand a fiery eye, laced with…Read more Pores

Grey

  https://youtu.be/808nTiXLam8 I’m still in this place. Sometimes it seems I never leave. * Gallery, 2014 Imagine, if you will a gallery piece installed, a row of plants at progressing stages of growth, lined up in pots and flash-frozen in time, breathing cold puffs, crystalline almost synthetic. Imagine also the moment the exhibit starts to disintegrate, freeing gouged…Read more Grey

The Ever-Processing Machine

I can’t find my incense. I don’t want to write. I desperately want nothing more than to write. For ever. So then, perhaps I’m just a stymied masochist at heart(less), doomed to miserable inaction for the rest of my days. I do not dedicate myself as I should, as I need. . . There’s a…Read more The Ever-Processing Machine

Thoreau on the (Hu)man

"See how he cowers and sneaks, how vaguely all day he fears, not being immortal or divine, but the slave and prisoner of his own opinion of himself, a fame won by his own deeds. Public opinion is a weak tyrant compared with our own private opinion. . . Think, also, of the ladies of…Read more Thoreau on the (Hu)man

Bread Crumbs

Wrinkles sagging with weariness, Gretel June seated her crooked torso on the last clear surface in the house: a padded footstool. The world swam in complete and terrifying circles around her, and closing her eyes only made it worse. She felt a lump in her throat that had nothing whatsoever to do with her heart, and much more to do with her stomach. Everything swirled so fast! Ancient, knotted hands cupped a steaming mug of hot liquid, which she blew on periodically, but never sipped...

A New Proposition

-- "Faith is not being sure. It is not being sure, but betting with your last cent... Faith is not a series of gilt-edged propositions that you sit down to figure out, and if you follow all the logic and accept all the conclusions, then you have it. It is crumpling and throwing away everything,…Read more A New Proposition

Idiolalia Poetry Collection Now Available!

Hello all 🙂 Thank you all so much for your support. Idiolalia is available straight from the printer now at 3 GBP or 5 USD each (or a cheaper PDF ebook copy). If you order from Lulu through the link provided here it should be sent straight to your house, super-easy. The price may change…Read more Idiolalia Poetry Collection Now Available!

Memo # 8 ~ Deep River (Shusako Endo)

"...And death itself began working backwards..." A tree grows up into the light, oxygen-laden air from out of the dark, decaying remains of its parent. Forest fires are part of the cycle of a healthy forest. Ever noticed that serving someone makes your heart more glad than being served. In my own experience, dying to…Read more Memo # 8 ~ Deep River (Shusako Endo)

Memo #5

Memo #5 ~ Simone Weil and Stringfellow The nature of Love is, enigmatically, found in perpetual Act, defined in the solitude granted within the oneness of intimacy, elusive as vapor and yet as ever-present and powerful as well. The nature of Love is dialectical, overpowering and underwhelming at the same time, in the tiny details…Read more Memo #5

Barren

Bent old woman, past all youth, her been- there- done- that -- sufficient. "Can't teach an old dog new tricks, you know", I know, everyone agrees with a shrug. All things are best left exactly as growth and evolution left them and once maturity has been reached there is no Hope of newness. "We must…Read more Barren

From For the Light

Solstice There is little snow on the ground when you begin your morning walk on this the shortest day of the year. This is the season of gathering cold, the fading memory of spring. Light flows slowly through the woods, a light you could harvest like grain or scoop into your astonished mouth the way…Read more From For the Light

:Scarred Sky Weeping:

this cool breeze reaches me through crAcked this window, freshly filled my lungs, with oxgyen-laden truths. my ears taste tiny drops of rain -- so many millions hit smooth decking at Once: jUmp, lay still. my senses are soothed, surrounded by the joining of guitar chords dancing heart-to-mind-to-fingers and the sound of rain-drip-dropping, pat-a-rat-tatting, sky…Read more :Scarred Sky Weeping:

Further Always

)i've a notion tonight that there's a further way to live than i do, and that it is far from impossible to live. i've always believed so, but this feeling tonight is like rubber on the road, like violets peeking out of soil, like music from strings of gut -- organic and all contact --…Read more Further Always