Wish I could turn myself into these fata morganas, handfuls of sensations that sway me under down pours only dimly understood.
Leaving the Long Weekend; Pale Grasp of Mist; Time-Space Share; Equatorial Illusions
Four from Solitary
How much one can learn from inebriates! Lonely in the city of my birth, that kissing monster from adolescence plays lip roulette again, then vanishes into the dark.
The Skeptic’s Apocalyptic Back Scratcher; Po’ Boys; I Would Tap That; Elusive Quarry; About a Rocket
To scratch is to admit feeling,fingernails peeling, revealing sensation that no Zeno or Kant,Hegel or Lacan can recant,
Fox Abandon; The Space Between; The Last House; Release
There’s a lot to be said for being able to appreciate the uncertain space between winter and spring, an unusually long space this year, after an unending winter.
Naked Graduation; Prolepsis; Public, Urban; Supervisor; Unfortunate Conflict of Interest
Instead of draped in yards of rented, slick Visqueen, we would arrive here naked, marching barefoot, each roll and fold of us with the exception perhaps of the tams with their exuberant dancing tassels and the brilliant plumage of hoods.
dark feathered birds; foreign alphabet in the guest house
small town frenzied charade a story for every question lock your name inside when you whisper the verbs are guilty of the same flawed thinking thin dreams and a full moon