Poetry up front, fiction in the back.
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i am the brand aware it’s dying i wear my jacket of ash and burn the more intensely insulated oxidizing at the rate of a sun yearning for the mantel urn i am an ember in a forest all afire i wear my jacket of ash and burn my heart’s a furnace and my flame a dance of devilish repetition in the faces and eyes arranged around a campfire saucers glazed as all about us wildfire rages branches crack…
come our fire is bright ascending and the stars still dance to the dark of night here huddle round as embers dwindle let us dream aloud of distant things that may not come to pass under the scrutiny of a noonbound sun things no one asks after and we tell no one eyes lurk reflective between tall stems of cane and the lapping lake the soundless shadow of an owl cuts short the courtship of a…
nearly invisible the oval dark of a waning moon but for the annihilation of galaxies and a spinning neediness in me to see her unenlightened features she’s a bright pair of horns there’s a grainy texture to an umbral moon the actual thing in the actual sky resembling an ancient amateur photograph of itself blown up to billboard size at low res my need to know is pitted with impact craters i praise…
swept up in the sway of twinkle lights and curtain grommets a guardian saguaro a breath of moisture in a winter desert your dorsal curvatures and the pink each evening of west reflected east i find my edges giving sway to twinkle lights and curtain grommets as i have taken flight from within a ribcage to the spinning mysteries of east reflected west the pink curvature of your chin and chest and…
the rotunda’s split almost in two along a jagged line of coffers in the dome wider at the top than at the bottom for a ringside view of the second coming ohio missouri mississippi all run brown from cityscape to delta farm tying blue ribbons around a nation from appalachia to the rockies it’s a fire in the bellies of mountains a bulging mantle of iron will that rips a continent apart the need of…
her bungalow porch is flanked at either end by lattice-climbing vines that wrap around the posts and up the eaves to block the neighbors them renters to the west don’t go to church can’t cut the grass or keep the peace from friday night to monday noon on this side good people the heinrichs bill works for the city he shares the driveway and the white garage gramma don’t drive in return he takes…
this is our history this is our home the wheel rocks to and from we pose no challenge to the equilibrium the wheel rocks to and from the scale of things that encompass a cranium is more than embodied brains contain the wheel rocks to and from all life is violence all violence is is a change in chemistry and o yes a crust congealing on a sea of iron the wheel rocks to and from red rifts lash out…
i steal the covers
i am the night wind that brushes the hair of a cloud that no one knows is there except the stars go dark they are aware i’m the rain too in the desert afternoon that evaporates above the ground a smear of dark unsaturated blue in the forest i’m the root you trip over where overlapping leaves laugh up above and below where sunlight never does i haven’t got all day to explain myself i’m a pock on…
Justice In the Making: Relating, Participating, Communicating
