poetry
The Letter
One day she arrived like a scab dragged across a ballad of iodine, a sequin of stars stitched to a dormant volcano’s lapel
poetry
138 posts
poetry
The Savage Harvest
Dogs know how to live and die with grace. I don't. In my hands are wet grapes fit to burst and beyond my reach...
poetry
A Bipolar Spring
It must be Spring. The begonias are vomiting diesel Again, Leaf blowers are whining like scapegoats Condemned to die Again In a swirl Of garbage and leaves, And I don't feel like being alive today.
Musings
Nothing is Enough
“When I have a terrible need of — shall I say the word — religion. Then I go out and paint the stars.” - Vincent Van Gogh A mystery consumes me. I pass the morning in ardent search of last night and furrow my brows as though dreams would return in the grooves of my forehead. That is not enough. Noth
Be The Change
The Gardener
We have pitched an innocent man against the thousand blades of grass. Once a week the battle is waged; each green sword glints with dew.
poetry
In the Shadow of the Alhambra
I promised no more poems of that night at the Alhambra,
holding hands beneath the moon Lorca once adored,
for to dwell on love’s sleight of hand is to risk breaking
its spell. It was decades ago, in gentler times,
as the past is always more gentle, tender even, like a knot
in your back you can’t massage, so you lay on a baseball,
re-position until the seams touch your pain and you think
This is what