i'm a 42 year old writer and have spent the last two decades sifting through books in a variety of libraries all across the southern United States while writing poems, stories and novels and am only now standing at that precipice where i'm willing to share my work with the world. my single greatest fear with regard to writing is that what i've penned would waste someone's precious time.
The unnameable voice whispers with a breath made solely from light –Its voice speaks a vocabulary uttered as vast permutations: migratory flocks, tree leaves, innumerable insects… tropes, colors, atoms and not least, the miscounted stars significantly smaller than the total
Your heartbeat pulses against your grace filled throat as a lamb lined up in a row when the spring wind is blood scented and flowers are faint–mild, bee thrummed, delicate beneath the harsh metallic flavor that makes your mind swirl
In my imaginary country stoned port authorities deport individuals for bad taste: the absurdity of airbrushed garments or plaid and argyle… Semper fi legal leniency toward serial killers –such immense effort, the extreme exertions of the will that conceals so
Impossible emptying my head of every bent phrase… The misshapen past crooked and crass –unrepentant lunar lit boyhood errant I against your shallow affect denial (my own story you dare edit or silence because every unacknowledged event is one erased
The visceral unease between genders …beauty that evokes incomplete phrases, erotic whispers and dream romances sublimated by acknowledging muses. Their distinct faces ripe with wry condescension cruel–dismissive eyes crystalline blue as the shallowest reefs where wealthy tourists lallygag like sea