Monthly Archives: January 2014
Petit Sphinx Gardien by Leonor Fini, 1943-44. Oil on canvas. What is it that wounds and also heals, disappears and reappears, hides and reveals. Sphinx, I dare not give the word for fear that it will then have power over … Continue reading
I want to whisper cliches that the days are too short and cost more than we know, but saying so is not enough. Still I am charged, dear friend, by the weight that amputates many a future rendezvous, distance and … Continue reading
So many aches are shadows of pleasures that elongate when a light source moves away from us; we see darkness deepening, cast by the fire burning only, now, behind us. What turns us away from the flame so we step … Continue reading
Words take on value only insofar as context emerges in relation to others, with words, with an attentive reader. Dollar bills acquire their value in the trade, the need and want, exchange— hand to hand, account to account. Nuts and … Continue reading
She kneads me in the middle of the night while I should be sleeping and leaves affectionate pin pricks that are still there on my skin in the morning and look a bit like a rash on my rib cage. … Continue reading
Damn poet–child–won’t let me sleep. All she wants to do is goof off, put on, make up silly songs or riddles. She’d skip about the place if I’d let her, but the downstairs neighbors!
The deeper joy in body lies while under madness dream descries, a tragedy unborn: will, rise! Still–what complies with hope: remains unstable.
Why is the poet’s voice most arresting when duty requires other agency? At 4am the sphinx stretches and purrs. What scratches her back to make her sing? What rubs her velvet nose and tugs gently at her scruff, forehead to … Continue reading