Blog Archives

The old lisp

I hear, as if on a grey day.   If all I have is through, the pool moves.   Un-tuck me   at the scribble of feathered wrist;   and dribble at God’s window-pane.   Gust is the scrawl I see as wonder;   crippled at the hillside.  

Mutant

I sit; a nut, turn in my shell, eyes in backward.   Dig a wee self; forage in the glen of fine, crude cells.   I’m pressed. Ears in the ocean seize… a mutinous song.   Feb 23 2017

Nervum Tibulum

Diabolical twitch in the darkness; singer in the light.   I’ve come to   winking at the fly, its odd caress and back of a turbulent sea;   and whistling over wings of a wet gnat.   At day I load my beanbag with the cat   and another three yak   of what they […]

In a Church

In the sigh of frescoes immortal eyes unhinge.   It’s you, me and the old moving air that flees in tasted gust to the walls and keels in a pirouette.   Intervals are rent for the choir when all dust is met with the roof as they sing and they sing   or when the […]