Ten Sentence Movie Reviews and Other Mussings
The shadows of our footprints follow us everywhere from the court, the pavement, the dance, the street, ink stained register of our birth, and the stumble to grave, invisible to us unless in melting snow, bed of dirt. The powder on the factory floor leaves the forensics of our existence. Watch as trees…
It has been five years since I visited you my old Sea Grape friend, standing proud and wizened in the front yard, unbothered by all the construction behind. Everything is smaller and crowded than I once lived it, except for you— still the right size for a wild girl to climb, providing enough shade for…
The weavers of the plains are tireless workers poor but honest, always trusting the generosity of an unlocked door to let in a husband working nights at the print and design shop, finishing that last small sign full of eclairs glazed with the most deliciously appealing serif font for the new French bakery off of…
P It starts with the line, an upwards curlicue, the noose flapping rightwards in the wind, at the top of the curl, an afterthought, because every line needs a curve and a loop to follow the road set to the next ones beginning, less it turn in on itself, circle about, or start and end…
a black cowl is over her deliberately shuttered in an unlit windowless room so when I open my eyes she is invisible, a lemon whiff peeling away, a piano c note on a whole beat struck three times, to tingle skin, ping the tuning ear, enough to know-now-ow-w the first great rain of her, the…
In Elsinore the poppies grow Despite the constant selfies show That stake their place in yellow high, No birds photo bomb their big I Show not seen by same throngs below. We are the influencers you know. We shine, svelte pose, for good ad flow, Post for your…
The Sumatran orangutan, gardening her spot comfortable in the canopy and lush tree top, nursing her young month-old, fell fiery below, seventy-four holes in her when the shooting stopped. - Four air gun pellets pierced her left eye, two her right, leaving her darkly blind, a howling Homer, Milton in orange pain, bereaved, childless, now…
There is no sky or earth in the white van that crosses me over, nor in the drywall coop painted red where white men with tattooed arms stood up and sit down, up and down, unleashed erections pivoting and searching for the best angle to penetrate my forever painful ass. - I am called “pollo”,…
My grief is stillborn, not consoled by the hope of replacement of another good little boy or girl with brown paws and a gentle lick, another Anne or Tom with eyes that cry of heaven and a bright mind that can write lines of cerulean clarity or calculate pi to the twentieth decimal, a wife…
