running (before a rustling wind)

there is a wind that blows hot in the middle of the night prickles my skin to a millimeter deep then bakes it rustle my venetian blind is restless at the thought of fire if I turn out the light in this oven I become a sauna sweat forms in beads in little salty dreams on … Continue reading running (before a rustling wind)

the writer commits a suicide

he imagines the death looks through the curtain the veil to the possible past for motive slowly a picture emerges the small triumph the large failure moments of nothing but angst a progression plotted with a blue marker on squares running across then down on a rotatable whiteboard the storyboard ticking off justifications and steps … Continue reading the writer commits a suicide

the risk of (literary) creation

he wrote himself into life on the paper every thought he’d ever had every way he had ever combed his hair every cigarette he smoked and that cigar each act of rebellion his first no all of his poems his lover his lovers he slowly wrote himself into life complete and full what he wrote … Continue reading the risk of (literary) creation

untitled – c

this is a story about companionship in the mornings when I rise I pace the floor noting shadows and silences that watch my movements neither guardians nor sentinels their significance eludes me on the patio I can lean against a fence that forms a boundary between myself and the garden bed unkempt through my neglectful … Continue reading untitled – c