Somewhere, Jon, somewhere a faith rises...
It’s like blow in a hollowlike didgeridoo —a coo into madnesslow slung lowhammock of an old song— numb, the breeze of hercool like swallow Come songCome song come gut come loose stringCome song come song come home song She tap in the windowsmear in the middensdrop dead arterial — right nowwheezing in a pumpmumbling in... Continue Reading →
Published in "La Piccioletta Barca" — Issue 19 — May 2020 https://picciolettabarca.com/issues/issue-19/come-april-silk/
Ah, that first year - when we still imaginedour sustenance - those first kennebecs,huge in the manure field, papered like birch,soft as creamed cheese. Dave’s mom planted there, but she was dead.He asked only a smidge of harvestfor the plot, new turned from blackand hereford compacted absence. And maybe he tasted his mother’s apron.Maybe he... Continue Reading →
The orange slim line of the chopper overheadMeans only one thing here - certainty.Certainty that northeast of where I standIs a near departure,Perhaps wedged behind a wheel.I will count the minutesAs I count thunders and strikes.I can do nothing else. For in the next thick hourIn the next thick breath,A mother may weep a son,A... Continue Reading →
I can smell my own pits,my night sweats,sucked up in my weekunwashed robe. I am disgusted. And yet, there,in the garment bags,lingered in your suits,your suits I brought homefrom your funeralin the sands so long far gone,remains these sameand bitter musks. And there, in the bags,the pastes of rose wallpapers,struggled up but aligned remain. And... Continue Reading →
Could there be a requisite span of mourning - some sentence meted out by the dead to be thrown black out into a day without - wistfully walking away? I picked a stone on a path as I thought of you. I picked a stone for my pocket, and there, in my pocket is my... Continue Reading →