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Category Archives: Writing
samizdat
samizdat bring the papers to me, dear and let the ink boil rebellious against the obeisance of fingerprints. creep to me under charcoal skies and wear your rutilant hair upon your ceramic shoulders. scrawl your protests in the text of … Continue reading
reveille
reveille I am solved by the equation of your eyebrows. They lift like windows, multivalent, like fog rising from the coruscant sheen of morning.
Posted in Poetry, Writing
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dear victory
dear victory dear victory don’t ring the bells yet; let your sparkle fill the thirsty maws of gulls at ebb tide as the water recedes and toddlers scamper after treasure chests of purloined shells and sharks’ teeth; let the last … Continue reading
stephen as a lady
–Author’s Note: Many years ago, I wrote a poem of the same title that got lost to the world. This is an attempt at a new version. It’s inspired by the poem “The Heart” by Stephen Crane (which is a … Continue reading
my intimate architect
–An older piece that has gone through a new revision. my intimate architect you began the scaffold on me and took notes in the margins of my naked side. throughout, you were as elegant as a bookshelf, illustrating for me … Continue reading
elk
elk the moon is a faded lingering imprint of chalk in the evening sky and the elk are bordered by the stamp of pines at the far edge of the clearing and the shoulder of the highway a hundred … Continue reading
statement
statement the sun is a bright bullet fired into the sky and if you listen closely, you can hear the echo in the chamber from which it departed.
gibson and celia are in love
–Author’s note: Another new one in its 3rd draft currently. Sort of a companion piece to “boys and girls in the night” but these two characters have intersected before in other places. gibson and celia are in love gibson and … Continue reading
delivery (or, there is no endpoint on the globe of our hearts)
delivery (or, there is no endpoint on the globe of our hearts) I. when the fog changed its narrative, the dolphins breached. foam curled like commas from their beaks and midday strings of sunlight molded into the pottery of evening. … Continue reading
Tidal Waves Don't Beg Forgiveness 