In Waiting– then wait and ask for more.

July 1, 2008 in brushes, figurative

Everything is getting easier.  The pain of novelty is slowly fading. Those chance events, striating bodies are healing.  looking at my belly, watching it raise like a small mound and flatten like it was commanded, I think of Jonah.  Screaming, “Where is the light!  I will not touch these disgusting walls.”  Jonah, now left to [...]

Line-nine, reads as follows.

June 29, 2008 in brushes, figurative, letter

I wanted to write a story.  But then the lines I wrote tired me.  Nothing sounded like I had imagined it.  I am disappointed and now writing about it.  As I read the lines, before I erased them, my thoughts turned to art.  I began to think, what would it take to succeed and write [...]

(a)Forever, (A)board

June 27, 2008 in figurative, letter

Then came winter.  Stepping slowly from the mountain, he was re-approaching the base of the summit.  The birds played their songs, perhaps their attractive song is why the man left.  No-one ever saw the man, how he made his way to the peak, and so rang the predictions.  Women told stories over breakfast and the [...]

Wired, attn: love.

June 7, 2008 in brushes, figurative, rhythm

“You’re a lover,” she said, “that’s why you only care about memories.”  Memories, I thought to myself.  Is that what this is?  Like the last thing we did, I best remember it- so vividly, how three birds watched us drive by.  They were quick, those two crows, darting through the phone-lines trying to irritate the [...]

To: Reread.

December 5, 2007 in figurative

My love, let me reread you.  Read you: That part of you that is so shallow and dark, that there is only a surface to read—alone.  That looks finished.  Simple enough that I can draw.  Draw a portrait—a self—portrait.  Your eyes wide open, but maybe a little closed, where I can see a little reflection, [...]

Part One / The Figurative

November 25, 2007 in figurative

The figurative—as in a figure of speech. I sometimes want to use speech like clay, as if my breath would act like my hands—the way my hands knead clay.
As in a figure of speech—I want a body to appear, but not any body. I want an ideal body—one with chiaroscuro. [...]