Sudden darkness like sudden black magic swirled in full sunshine of a mayday noontime crept up out of crypts I thought long conquered and buried tight, and dizzy with the spine-tingling, hand-trembling flutters of free fall and first dates, I clung to the rungs on a metal ladder three stories skyward and mused over with some sinister but no less glorious expectation how it would feel to let go....
My, Grains to Level
Sleep away this morning drum beat, pound cake pick-ax loose in my head aches and day dream glideeeee like a silver fish fins brush an eel in the rushes brown reeds and white water lilies of boggy marshlands all skin smooth and dead quiet.
The past is never where you think you left it.– Katherine Anne Porter
Just Say No
China doll eyes and canvas-backed scrap metal fillings in her teeth she grinds them flat on every word she bites back.
Mother Mary, grant a prayer for me? The babies are sleeping so sound in their cradles and everyone else fell asleep in their drinks. The party wound down after sunset and midnight with one man lingering longer than most, damn his stubborn nocturnal bravado, his attractive features, his good taste in clothes. I’ve knelt here and waited, hunkered down in this closet, I swear the air’s...
It’s a sin to be so tired and look so haggard in a world full of mistakes and misinterpretations, who do you think has time to save you?
Through the deep night a magic mist led me like a simpleton roaming the land,...– First stanza of “Ceo Draiochta” by Eoghan Rua O Suilleabhain (eighteenth century Irish poet). Pretty pretty.
Come two at a time and death climbs in three by three but quiet joy, like honey on spoons or midnight smiles goodnight kiss and morning, rises and so the wicked flee.
Time is money but I don’t see either of those things floating around my neck of the woods except for copper pennies (too many) cast in as cheap wishes swallowed up by green algae that collects and coagulates thickly on the edge of shallow pools and standing water— the coins settle heads down.
Jam on dry bread and wax on snow. Sailed away from St. John’s to escape pigeon greys and wedding whites and checked into a Dutch hotel for a number of rainy nights. It poured and poured and the other guests snored from the bridal suite. Left crying in a heap but pulled up with a heave-ho, now waiting for a west wind to blow her back home.
Steppe in Style
Love like a tumbleweed— head over heels with the wind at your back carrying you from high snares to low valleys, through mud and out of borderland tree lines, to further roll and twine for time out of season until you’ve worn yourself into dust that sputters once before dispersing to sky-birthed heights and heavenly places or with little left to lose, tumble breakneck towards a brush...