Greed Greed Greed
In Covington, I smell the honeysuckle smeared across the hills: impenetrable yellow mocking the warblers as they guzzle mealworms…
Still Life With Dog In The Yard
The throat chaps from an easterly pumping harder now. A march of ants parade around the kettle in one straight line…
A garland of tako tentacles dangles under the canopy of Natsuo’s yatai…
Praying to Unreliable Gods
Turn the door knob as if picking ripe figs. Spin the wrist and pull your harvest…
Remember that she’s the most elemental of women—made from the oldest & purest of things—and has spent most of her life trapped beneath layers of sand, with no way to externalize her angst or express her suffocation.
Walter Benjamin’s Flight through the Pyrenees Up to the Bluffs of Pure Language
In a drawer at the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, Klee’s angel holds his clustered smile in place. His eyes slide sideways, though there’s nothing to see in the dark.