Day 110: April 19, 2017

Go Fuck Yourself Yeats (A Poem) Oh, weary eyes! Nay, I cannot hear nor taste, my fingertips twinge at this misery. The poet dead in his hills laughs at my prose, chortles, spasms and writhes beneath his green mound. 'Who are you to say you can craft! Continue boor; slop away your days churl; art is … Continue reading Day 110: April 19, 2017

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Moments in Seventy Years, Heart, Heart, Unswell

Love is not fate, nor some duration of frivolous months or years. It is molecules flung wide, astral breaches that birth light and our knowing. We see an owl in a lone cypress, its tonal voice like air in a ventilator, a soft whoosh of meaning and yet melodic as a string of warm, summer … Continue reading Moments in Seventy Years, Heart, Heart, Unswell

Hound Dog Blues

In October, the dullest month of all, two rapists escaped from Sugarloaf Detention Center. The dogs tracked them through Miller's Farm, through pumpkins large as toddlers, through the discarded rubbers of puerile lovers in another road-side field, and finally into my crop of secluded grain. Pheasant swarmed like maudlin incubi at the sight of them, … Continue reading Hound Dog Blues