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”
Updates and design changes – more like a total overhaul – of one of my fav blogs! Check it out. . . .
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”
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. . . .”
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”
. . . . so many maps
burgeoning, just beneath the skin
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”
The wind will shift from south to north again
as the earth tilts her way along the year
and my breath will enter the tapestry
as I weave my own way along, in time.
This morning a song is happening. . . .
ridiculous: the difference
from aquatic birth to
solid earth, so far north
to deepest south
espresso sings: hand to mouth