Category: Prose

Faces.

not dressed in the thunder of the storm—where the creel slips away from the fool.

Perhaps I only see the drunkening of a moment rather than its reason.

He should have carried it with two hands.

castles of sands.

I knelt down of dreams, of seas
for reaping digits against the tree-bark
in absence of the moon’s tongue
of Janus—sprawled out to the
wails of shyness; father of bones,
do not come back for me.

In mind.

and I’ve never known him
this man of earth, of war
and weedy cypress, lizards
and their fluted skins
married to the wind;
phantom epistles
from Vietnam

if I were

It is lovelorn, it is the red pine that falls like clockwork. Only then would I think I saw this before. Fossils and skull-caps of the ocean, it rapes each wave onto the root-llano, the flower of death.

All Poetry Contest (Ends December 3rd, 2020).

I am currently hosting a contest through All Poetry, and it is centered around writing poetry inspired by Wallace Stevens. This is the first poetry contest I am doing through there and if anyone would like to participate, you must submit your entry through All Poetry.

The contest ends on December 3rd, 2020 where I will then judge the pieces received.

eyes of the lagoon.

Father of gunmetal, fingers and sap

kneeling to the blood-red of our faces

from my formaldehyde Grandfather,

in the black elms, a crown of sun pencils

on white skin, now the eyes I find of the lagoon

were treed in artichoke; father’s eyes are mine