Category: poetry
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Still Life with Apple Tree
Untitled, Woman with Tree, paper collage, 2021 being. portrait of nonbeing still-life with an apple tree tied behind your back thin paper nose back arched like a self-tied knot infatuated with pianos, maybe, or waking up gently to the thrill of chrysanthemums on a Tuesday morning (with dew) it’s the kind of scenery that writes…
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Coda, Or the Curious Octaves of Lily Pads
they say the hour of the elephant has ended the curious octaves of lily pads are asleep on the beds of imaginary rivers (mellow, green, with lofty perfumes of herbs and fresh candlelight) i hope you’ve enjoyed this time between planets the sacred meditations of snails philosophers retro-emotional sunflowers …breathing in space breathing out bouquets…
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The Invitation
The Invitation, paper collage, 2020 the crow, the shunted earth a detestable paradox, i’d say a man, the shadow of a man could have been anyone. i am troubled by his stillness, his lethargy of mind a woman, face like an amber moon begins to move & wonders if she is a messenger or a…
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Venus Flies at Night
Salvador Dalí, The Hallucinogenic Toreador, 1968-70 Venus flies at nightrugged-faced androgynous as a whistlea cactus breeds listens with two heads at the same time(a bit like walking without sunshine)perhaps a better woman would have squeezed the worldno. a better woman would have told you happiness is singing with your hair downin spite of all the…
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Hands on the Ocean
we are responsible for the obsolete it’s in everything, after all. time, dust shifting unawareness a drop of rain or a hand on the ocean how cosmic, how quaint what else but marigold fields? what else but the record of a hummingbird symphony? where were you when they whitewashed the moon gave paradise an old…
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Undefined Lives of Trees
this is the best you’re expecting; a sky to enlarge the gloom, a spoon to tell you the meadow is impossible; well, i’m here to tell youto shine, to not shine, to make oars of our legsis to violate the most sacred arrangements to agitate the sands precisely when there is no sand at all;…
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Last Migration
there’s an idea that we’re alive & don’t know it. that chaos is born from the geometries of nightingales & parabolas in bad weather but there’s no such thing as chaos, friend, only an order you don’t understand; we’re all staring at an atlas of nowhere; lizards don’t change socks & heroes don’t climb telephone…
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Fragile Oasis
freedom is circling on a bicycle where days end and the revolutions of pine cones remind us of what might have been dialectics of butterflies riverboats resting in quiet fulfillment to the birds: keep going to the grasshoppers: the parable remains the same what music walks for the monologues of rose petals or the hearts…
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This Blank Music
“It is wrong to assume that art needs the spectator in order to be. The film runs on without any eyes. The spectator cannot exist without it. It insures his existence.” – Jim Morrison a spectator, in forty dreams travels, reviles destiny intimates the dead. his eyes are absent & peopled with their own white-hot…
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Notes on Living Poetry
this world is unfinished. we all know that. the habitats of strangers are reckless alphabets through a small hole, i can see their deserted backyards. a boy hurls a prairie into space, listens to Neil Young and cultivates a soul of leather puffs his chest everlastingly …better to be mellow and out of touch says…
The Used Life 