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fooling around with long forms and prosey-ness. Trying to find my voice again.
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I have no fiction to spell
no hacksaw that severs nails
from the crown of thrones,
the education of rosebushes
or thorns, piercing palms
when see..
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I write to the still voice, the one
I can unravel, knitting yarn, rings
in trees or onions --
the cyclical beat-beat,
the wind in my hair,
a..
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There are trees at the edge
of the perceived desert, savannahs
(another word for mirage or heaven), a never
faltered fallen place, fractured,
an..
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So here it is, from the beginningbarely evening & the drawing
dark pulls shades across still & snowy hill-lands; the mountains
are blue si..
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Icarus never saw the edge of the world,
a deep peaking crevasse, echoing
into chambers, the holy vessel
of the physical heart, asking
the question..
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I feel the spiral of time, the vortex
where hands meet fists meets feet
the whole of the body & the whole
of the night, coalescing like ebbing
..
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TS Eliot wrote how april was the cruelest month,
a sanction of rain on dry earth,
a thirsting growth.
I am only a small collection of other lett..
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There was a moment yesterday after sitting
in the Indian Restaurant (where
the owner's are Nepalese), after
drinking my two cups
of milky-sweet..
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maybe I could have marked
the extra hour, wound down the year
carved another coil into the rock,
the last glance, the last boom of old intentions..
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