No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. Since 2015.
. Look, she said, pointing at the painting of arms like vectors to an otherwise armless place. We hunched before canvas after canvas laying our sketchbooks on the floor, lead scattering ant-like under our scabbed elbows. This is what it takes to be made right: to follow the leash of each other’s bare hiccups, our impressions of the world yet unformed.
I know you are on your way to meet me at the Inn on cheat river...
The equestrian creature of our dreams is the national animal of the Celtic country. For more than 600 years. What? Innocence and Purity and Chivalry and Masculinity are called out by the Scots. As all the cultural reasons. For the mythical creature. To crash down onto Scotland’s coat of arms. Single-horned creature of magic. Transformed into a beast of hero-worship for a kilt-wearing, sword-wielding, blood-thirsty Braveheart.
The signal tower with crumbling plaster Bereft of signals, no need to switch, now a broken toy, Or the empty house where the couple, nameless, Everyone knew, lived forever. What remains?
When I look in the mirror I’m looking for someone who looks like me
Daffodils of autumn
Do you know why the stars never fail the night when it’s young and early? We’ve lost more time drawing ourselves into a tomorrow we aren’t in.