staring at these screens, I wonderif I’ll get sucked in one day &live inside the vastness ofcyberspace they tell me about virtual realityI cringe, then remind myselfyou can’t stop progress technology speeds uplike a fast-tracked audio file& when it gets to the endwill we hear the final sound? For further work, visit Fiction and Ideas.
this is not a letter to myself quickly the moon is forever i say that sometimes these ghost fingers reach to wind the strings and twist the whitecaps upon the bridge; i sit at midnight famous blue raincoat on my lips, a thunder squirms into my body of stone voice nothing, where I […]
So many pieces of the puzzle, there is no need to hidebut they were lost, caught in nets on Pier 39Like an unfaithful son on the day of his bridethe colours of this city run and they rhymePollock might say its a bit of a daubuntil each piece he numberedPasted my memories in a red, […]
Originally posted on George Ellington: The words, the power, the very syntaxof your verse delights me,says the linguist in me. The imagery flows like molten cloudsover my aging soul,cries the artist in me. Your rhythm reaches into my heartand entices me to sing,chants the musician in me. The sensuality of your voice caressesmy pulsating skin,moans…
Her fingers tracing mineLily danced me out of the gardenthose green eyes brimming livelywith purest abandonThen barefoot on the boardwalkher summer dress riding highshe leapt onto the jettyand gestured to the sky We let our tanned legs hang belowas we bottomed up the bottlethe air was hot and heavythe sea around us peacefulThere was lust […]
A voice of an ancestressfrom slightest memory, I, my ghosts on branches of April,like mice, we speak; between fingers of solace-drunkin the hills I found a voicebroken through my body, the sucking of black dressesin the wind, trees swoopingfour bones holding each other,we are holding hands, emerged a moon-maidenslack against my skull—trees mix in bloodshot […]
This the sea, their shadows in madcap deaths; where is the garden beyond the moon, which leaves a ghost that I once knew as myself? I sway between finger and root; small hands desert me in memory free, I am not the skinof your lip, tree,and I am not looking now to be dead and […]