Moonlight With Tom Thomson Tom Thomson winked as Marla tucked a daisy into the open paint-box on his lap. She did a double-take and stepped back. There was a discordant crash behind them, and Marla flinched and looked over her shoulder. Her family was banging on the rainbow-painted piano in the middle of the patio
Category: Vein of Work
I Love a City That Will Never Love Me Back The desert stopped crying long ago. She placed her tears in a prickly pear and gave me a champagne mirage where palm trees forget to grow. Where sweat drenches daylight and neon sucks the soul from night. Where drunken marriages flow as freely as fingers
Tears of abandonment in the eyes of a faithful companion my past has been part of someone else’s future; Ripening into a sailing stone inscribing long tracks without any physical intervention giving birth to geological phenomenonal types of rocks; Being the kind of man that is never poor, aiming for the shade and prescribed hugging!
On the (not so) Merry-Go-Round Dawn’s wake-up call a constant replay caught on a carousel, a March hare carnival, a nightmare because there’s no safety out there. Longing for days before a new normal ripped memory, slashed from olden days of childhood, turned a sunny life into a three-ring scramble for $ with roaming unmasked
I haunt myself with fragments embodying wonders of roads not taken not able to witness where they could have led aside from tracings in my eye gone once focused on in the pale blue din of thoughts intersecting with cross-sections of self here yet not really anywhere of consequence. Who would I be without you?
Sideways Talk I watched the sunlight slowly depart the room. Magically sucked from the room through a closed window. Darkness. Another day marked off. I was neither happy nor sad; mostly bored. They told me not to worry; they will take good care of you; you won’t be there long. The door to my room
I shut my eyes to brush through my memories for warmth and sunny beaches as a pair of red, shiny slippers shelters my feet. As the slippers clack, clack, clack, I wishfully whisper: “there’s no place like home; there’s no place like home; there’s no place like home.” But that won’t get me all the
Elegy To My Breastmilk Your milk will come once You birth Your baby. Prepare accordingly. Your baby needs to be cut from your womb – Prepare. Your nipples are large. Your baby is small. Your milk will come if you pump enough. Come breastmilk, come Make me Mother. My first Mother’s Milk – Golden Milk
Daddy, oh (for Lawrence Ferlinghetti) If your father is messing-inaction you look round for replacement but that’s your secret even you don’t know. Dad: a beaten conundrum, flaking goldfish that forsook water in favour of booze. Son – not reflective moon – alters course, makes tracks in deep space or sea, learning to navigate, searching