oblong face like an opal grape crag of nose guarding coinpurse mouth how strange after a brief oblivion – eighty years in the grave leapt an exhalation of moribund mold – body produced as a conjurer’s trick shaken out of the ground to blink at the ordinary horrors of the twenty-first century
having found out about his return the world looms in abuzz a single unsleeping eye and an implacable maw hungry for the diversion of news could not let him alone every wilderness full of adventure seekers even the corner dust in the most common room teeming with explanation – pollen, textile fibers, shed hair and skin cells from the ordinary souls that passed through but not completely away
deathless he could not sleep and sleepless he could not dream so fraught with anxiety to the point of paralysis he sedimented the dull dregs of himself the unremarkable merely physical setting up like an idol eyes open now for eternity standing stiff in the darkest corner of the last independent bookstore in Arkham
a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
Same dream, different night a sense of De Ja Vu takes me back to another life… my heart beats fast like angel wings, as you come in out of the shadows I begin to remember everything… Irish green eyes radiating
Why deceptive retrieve in a wheelchair for the fallen? Was it not a sheer wrong message of a space anxiety? The aboriginal name was dead in a traffic. What a choice to breathe its last in a city of buried
I forgot, was it me in a body pile draped in dust, still hot, bruised, burnt, a mad megalomaniac starting a civil war, creating suicide bombers, young virgins inhaling death? This journey under the guns, displacing hapless thousands, will reach