i dreamt i was the moon, but the dream seemed real upon waking, so much so that i checked the mirror for craters and dark sides. i found nothing of interest–no man living there, no celestial maiden, no mochi pounding rabbits. the memory of that cold embrace of the dark sky, being held by nothing, floating and shining with an impossible weightlessness of being both far away and as near as a reflection in glass haunted me throughout the day and well into a moonless night.
Tag: creativity
a feather the weight of the sun–20190718
i push into you
pass through you like
that episode of star trek
–which one?–
where a transporter accident
causes the crew to phase into
a parallel dimension
but still they manage to
keep their feet on the
floor of the ship
–which one?–
how do ghosts do it?
pass through walls
yet move on a slightly curved path
that ties them to the earth
like regret or obsession
is just another word for gravity
like destiny is another word for density
the stuffed birds in the taxidermist’s window
forever open their beaks
forever expand their throats in song
for never fly again
illustrated literary crafts–20190708
like layers
like sheets of thin
moon-on-glass translucent
papers piled
each corner at odds
with all other corners
an impossible origami
–look, you say
–a heart
–look, I say
–a bird dead in green grass
the dog knows it is paper
and tears it to pieces
but refuses to digest it
hare restoration—20190623
rabbits dot the grass
like dandelions
eating dandelions
scattering like dandelion fluff
after a good dream squashing kick
or a robust wish granting puff of air
when the dogs approach
though
one of the rabbits
reminds me of bigwig
or maybe woundwort
the way he stares at us
and doesn’t move
a wish that will
not be denied
nor whispered to the breeze
forlorn (20181028)
crow
in the yard
digs through trash
among words
i’ve tossed out
it finds one with still
a little life
plucked from the ashes
of other
dead phrases
i feel the crow disturb it
through a pulsing umbilicus
that runs across a cracked driveway
and fragrant rosemary
with impossible blue blossoms
it runs under the door
straight into my gut
the word throbs in his beak
like a thumb-size mass of organs
wrapped in a greasy membrane
he will unseam this word
tear out the stitches
pierce it with his black beak
devour the marrow
it will become his
it will become his word
and on his black tongue
it will be his song
as he rises from the ground
i throw rocks at him
my loud visitor
to scare him away from
the bins
but he eyes me with contempt
and with my hard work
in his glistening maw
he takes to the air
i do not
pursue
his feathers are so black
so very like the night
and this
paper is so
so
white
First Printing
I like to do things besides write, and I know I’ve posted at least one picture of my sculptures before. I have more, and really intend to add them. But that’s for later.
The above untitled piece is the beginning of my foray into printmaking. I created the original image by combining found sources in Photoshop and then transferring the etching to a plexiglass plate. The first two editions were in black ink, this and a partner piece in red. The entire effort is very process oriented and really requires you to be present. It’s very different from any other endeavor I’ve tried before. And a lot of fun.
on being dropped feet first from a plane without a parachute into an icy sea (20161218)
the sudden impact
shattered tarsals
launched femurs
\cracked iliac crests
synovial sacs burst
as splintered bones
tore through bone
and much softer
more fragile tissues
–would you do it again?
–probably
what we reap (20161106)
it all has to be cut down
the waist-high grasses we
thought were wheat
but turned out to be inedible
there was no chaff to separate
no flour to be ground
no bread to be baked
but the unleavened
hardtack of regret
and false hope
——
for
as everything turns grey
writing prompts by J.R.Rogue and Kat Savage
4. What We Reap
night lights (20161023)
will o’ the wisps
glowing in rain
accelerate toward me
like headlights
or those tiny ufos
in close encounters
i will
become less
suddenly insubstantial
riding the back of
a firefly
chasing raindrops
i wish hummingbirds
glowed
in the dark
Poem 20160408b
you are petals
and the scent of petals
haunting the tips
of my fingers
long after i have touched you
you are the rose in the morning
just opening to the day
the greater periwinkle
so like a star
so like the word twinkle
you are the hidden flower
at dusk
never seen but always there
the ghost of a fragrance
——
Words and Feathers 