At Work

The Romantics wrote poemsto pay for European walking toursWordsworth and Coleridgetraipsing across the Alpswith boots and packsmade of words. Jules Verne quit his jobon the stock market, havingbrokered himself such agolden position, penningthe extraordinary, he pouredout jingling tickets withhis morning cereal. In classic Russian novelsthere are poets by tradenot just by name or naturefiery broodingContinue reading “At Work”

Between the Golden Bars

From a bird in a gilded cage Pecking at the walls of invested desireFeed the well a doubloonIt spits back an ingotVaults of piggies full to the brimGenerations of interest ensuredBut coins in the mattressPoke holes in retirementGreen paper wallsTear and burnBetween the golden barsGleams a life with all the trappingsLuminous bowls in the lapContinue reading “Between the Golden Bars”

Ch-ch-ch-changes. . . .

Welp, it’s been a challenging year for me so far, and the way I’ve responded to it is to push all creative endeavors to the background (except piano, that one is my outlet). I’m not writing much, and I’m not photographing much. By not much I mean barely at all. For a while, I’ve feltContinue reading “Ch-ch-ch-changes. . . .”

Shadow

my shadow is tallshe can reach all the glasseson the top shelf she fills them to the brimwith strong cocktailsbecause alcohol doesn’tbother her stomach,and neither does anyquantity or combination of food she drives fastand says “f*ck it”more than I do, becausethat field of hers really is barrenand she lords over ita lanky scarecrow inbright redContinue reading “Shadow”

After the Front

After midnight the storm’s breathcame fast and fierce betweenthe houses, snuffingtrees and patio furniturelike errant candlesit gripped the stars and stripeslike a sail, unmooringour flagship with a single blowso it drifted into thedepths of the gardenfences folded like ahouse of cards, harkeningto the maelstrom’s beguiling whistle But you would never knowit now – if itContinue reading “After the Front”