old man spoke with tears in his eyes telling tales of better days about seasons which bled into each other like paint how colors seemed to fade a little each passing year – he remembered his childhood home how he left it went to new york one eve on a departing train refusing to look…
Tag: Life
Off the Beaten Path
i’m writing poetry through jaded eyes sitting on the floor staring at a dimmed down screen on a broken down computer that reminds me of one of those as-is cars you find in a lot – i’m propped against the wall naked ass digging into the beige shag carpeting in a town that belongs to…
Drowning in Puddles
friend speaks fails to listen – tells me i should look on the bright side – peering down from a high rise obscured by the sun – words soft as his sensibilities unscathed unmarred unscarred – shudders at the the shallow burs barely digging at his heels – they nag occasionally but his feet don’t…
Life: As Viewed Through a Lens
where will we turn when the sun hides when the tides roll in roll out wash the shore clean erasing our mark eroding as the grains slip through the glass shattered pieces scattered in all directions bellowing death wail perforating eardrums fall deaf eyes blind mind ignorant of our influence we’re all running treading water…
Vow of Silence
this week i struggle to find the words to put to page – i am not certain why – do i lack inspiration or perhaps i lost the way – maybe my mind is cased in static interference inhibiting the flow electric currents dampened – maybe art is imitating life – for even in conversation…
The Sagacity of the Stream
i watched across the water on a bank lined with dying trees rotten roots reaching out beyond the sinking silt – sun bleached dried and eagerly seeking to sate in desperation a thirst unquenched – gnarled fingers poke like porous bones body tilts towards tumbling tide – there’s an island in the center stream receding…
That Spark
Another restless night. Bare and uncovered in the darkness I listen to the hum of whirring motors that fill the void with mechanical life. Outside, street lamps give off a dull yellow glow. I picture them, imperfect, tilted in the ground, left by some worker who figured the task completed well enough. My central air…
Piecework Prose 