Category: poetry

Memory and imagination are one in the same for storymaking but sight depends. Did you know that birds see ultraviolet light? Something about a fourth cone. There’s science and there’s knowledge and there’s utility but then there’s how things seem when we’re only looking at the surface, now and past, the ocean’s always deeper. The […]

Someone else once described poetry as the practiced revelation of subjects ordinarily marked for concealment, but no one buys it so why bother sourcing the quote. “It” must be ok for me to steal, I excuse myself. Time and time again I excuse myself. Let’s say for the sake of shaky foreshadowing that the door […]

Hyper-awareness is such a flatly ironic drag when it lacks the ability to go beyond itself, within itself, the verysame way we mistake saying what (we think) we’re doing for telling the truth, even going so far as to imagine this language ours simply because something must be? This winter won’t be like the last […]

No matter the number by which you decide to split the dividend of times I lied to myself you’d still have a quotient I wouldn’t know how to pronounce. Good sides are derivative and I know mine suggests communication equals a judicious need to see the language of my circumscription—that, in other words, needing to […]

The ground again, yesterday, it’s still there, or was, and it’s still hard with these pauses to tell where one step begins and the last one ends, so might as well admit I’m still somewhere on it, the ground, that is, though proud this time (for once?), not so much held down as simply looking, […]

Everything I tell you is a story, or a part of one, and I’ve no inclination-desire to be less esoteric, only to be more poetic. The tussle with content and form, with self, in fact, un-fact, and all its reconstructions, even selflessness with the “I think” qualifier to down-tone the pathology, and how and in […]

There’s a hole in my chest where the truth’s supposed to be. There’s a hole in my head where this creation’s supposed to be. I’ll pour everything in, I wonder, filling it, suppose, and what will be left. What will, answered, but French-braided ambiguity.