My need to write, to turn my pain into art, led me to appreciate great writing.
Foxes and Coyotes
Me, I was a squirrel. I was small. But I was agile.
Ritual of Tale-Telling; For Each Soul Umade; A New Sky Beams; Postmortem for a Finger Withered Out
There is no tale-teller, no bagpipe to thread these words in rhythms: sounds, seizures, thoughts that linger and bloat a mind.
Balancing; Another Heatwave; Stake Out; In the Glitter Pattern
You say you want to know, that a god should put all their stuff behind those eyes, all your heaven, a whole sun —plasmatic and self-consuming— attached in one weird head.
Dirt is Soil; Friend Request; Musician at the Reunion; Rendezvous; The End of Summer
You don’t even have a lawn,
yet you present yourself, a violin in one
hand, bow in the other, head back in
song, the only who of us who’s free.
Sport of Blood Unseen
You loved terrible movies, glittering with violence and shallow story-lines. Watching those movies on Saturdays after cleaning the house were some of the most peaceful times we spent together.