Give me a blossom that blooms in my hands all blue and white petals that wilt on command.
The dripping haze, so cloud soaked and sopping I’d rather not face the day—if that’s what this is, sun so absent I couldn’t say, not for sure anyway but best start waving off this foggy, humid morning digging through a hundred shades of grey to find an hour worth the waking.
The difference between highs and high places
If I had a dollar for every man who said, I bet you smoke weed like a chimney as I lean off a porch railing or stand on a balcony edge arms outstretched balanced and eyes half-closed in ecstasy declaring the world for poetry and lime juice among other things. Well, I’d be very rich indeed.
"There is one spectacle grander than the sea..."
apoetreflects: “There is one spectacle grander than the sea, that is the sky; there is one spectacle grander than the sky, that is the interior of the soul.” —Victor Hugo
Matter of Fact
Oh, deal this out. So far she can’t make up her mind one way or another but she swears he said something profound once. Given, as he was, to prolonged silence, diatribes sloshed from his well-shaped mouth like lukewarm water when they came and came often. To his mother, he might have mentioned sweet things, about birds and babies, angel wings and a dalliance with the girl next door. Sex and...
Bride down on the church steps fell flat on her face after two years of bliss and another two of hate.
There’s a sudden chill in the air, a gloominess that’s settled in for the summer. No one talks about glorious tomorrows anymore. It’s all sensationalism, all news of disease and pestilence, calamity and death.
There’s something in the water, a cold, menacing thing. Crushed glass on sea foam, riding the wave and crashing against the sand, tearing it back from the hill, dragging it back to the fathomless deaths. This violence in Poseidon’s eyes, this murder in the sea-girls’ hearts. Wreathed in weeds and wildness, they clutch daggers to their frigid, North Sea breasts and barter in...
In So Many Words
the girls in my family are cold, frost-bitten creatures too often burned by a cooling flame and swayed only by hymn lyrics too old to quote without sounding a little out of place. mere sense and mind over matter passed from mother to daughter we have these tenets tied tight and corset-laced in morality or held close, like the only child of a dead man’s wife. turn a blind eye to those failings...