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Everything’s broken, diseased, sold and resold. The pandemic’s breath blows on us. Everything’s is devoured in a hunger never filled. So why do I see a glistening in the distance? In the day dream, a forest appears on the border. The scent of lavender and lilies exhales out. In the nightmare, the zodiac…
Her name you may or may not recall. It was Chrissie, the body in the sand dune. You do remember the shark, the blood on the water, death spreading like a virus in the town of Amity. You do remember that the beaches should have been closed but Amity was a summer town…
What is the land but dust but mountains but forrest but mud but lost sorrow What is sorrow but torn soul but wounded skin but a trail of tears. This day the Chickasaw Choctaw Creek Seminole Cherokee wipe the white mans dirt off their right foot with their left foot wipe…
Read More "A Prayer on Walking a Small Part of the Trail of Tears"
It’s a fizgig, a gadding of damp powder hinting to explode, assuming your surname without any legal ceremony. It flip flops you with trust burrowing into the one perfect position, sleeping ahead of you, waking you when you fall behind. Not at all heavy, yet the heaviest thing you’ll ever have. Every breath…
Up A seed is a forest-to be. A rock is a mountain-to-be. A drop is a river-to-be. A river is an ocean-to-be. A cloud is a sky-to-be. Clouds are an aspiring heaven. An apple is a pie-to-be. A brick is a house-to-be A house is a city-to-be. A city is a state-to-be.…
The moon was neither voiced into creation nor was it defined. It was just parted from the dark ink of God’s voice. Alphabets don’t exist on dark vellum just illuminated papyrus. God doesn’t have the power to banish those things that have always existed. He can’t create the perfect night just…
The light was so bad I made some clouds— little cotton balls taped to helium balloons drifting up to the heavens. The first were the standard balloon animals: dogs, sheep, horses, giraffes, lions. They folded conventionally but became much more creative creatures with more cotton piled on. The orange poodle became a bison,…
Revolver with rose isolated on white. Vector colourful illustration. The poet makes his gun out of any old thing: sticks of words, bird song, the swish of trees, the pitter patter of the growing city around him, The poet’s gun is never just a gun. His poems are never just…
This soul is not a drip-dry thing. It’s needs constant washing and wringing to function cleanly. It needs to tumble on high heat to wear just right. Hand wash it and it will shrink in protest. Line dry it and you might think it will smell of heaven but it is the rancid smell of…
