If you hide from the snow, you will
Be found, not by the conformity of color
But by the negation of it. You have lived
Long in the cave of steel and wire,
Long in the forest of electric hum.
It is the day for you to make new
Memories. Continue reading
He rarely listened to what I taught
but that is the way. A true teacher learns
early that insisting the student listen
is the surest way to uninsure it.
I would be deep into Lao Tze’s treatise
on warfare, and he would be drawing crude
pictures of what he imagined women dreamt he
might do to them. Fart jokes besides Poetics,
impromptu themes justifying the ways of God
to amoeba in terms only amoeba would understand. Continue reading
624 Thesselonia Avenue
10:51 a.m., March 25
What have we got here?
Boys on the way to school found her.
They touch the body, move anything?
Nah, they were so scared they took off running.
Got an ID? Got any identifying marks?
Nope, dress has no pockets, probably just a tart.
Or a goddess, Lenny, you know it’s hard
To tell ‘em apart on the road in the dark.
Dun. Dun. Continue reading
Welcome to a witching
(we wear our robes
This is an invitation – limited
For private eyes only
Red tag sale— Continue reading
Pasifae by Oscar Estruga
Spin me into the story resting in your bones,
Whirl the stormy past into sea foam until
The moon appears inside your home.
Spin me into life where memories are made.
Put your pen to paper and your paper
To my heart. Sign the oath of salt water
Arising from my birth. Tempt the maker
Of the times that lie within your grasp. Continue reading
Under the bridge, the white morning glories
rest from the work that has circled them in,
that has pinched energy into rest, life
into death, bloom into shell of that bloom.
I run over that bridge, desire like wood
splintering from me and landing in vines.
I hear them whisper about me. I hear
everything whisper about me—the trees,
the grass, the wind. I am known like I never
was inside those walls. I am known unlike
a girl before people, in the hunting
moon, in the time of the wolf’s breath, my life
hidden in reeds titled by the current.
I appear when thorns etch my lines in dust.