From the 2018 Collection "The Dead Dog Parish"
One of God’s tricks is, similar to Michael Jordan, It sinks a three-pointer with 1.2 seconds left on the clock,
A Sacred Site is the ultimate emblem, a trophy of the horizon’s finitude… No better a final gate, no more wiser a runway,
You can get better, or you can get worse, or you can stay the same. But you can’t change. Nope!
I saw him on the side of the road, on the side of the interstate exit… Maybe he was 18, definitely not 21… tired but not yet haggard. The moment I saw him
A tide of blood, miniature in compare— But an ocean no less, to the virus in there.
The moon lulls me as I wade through poppy fields, dragging limp hands behind me, catching each pod long enough before it snaps upright again
I lost my pendant, a dove with a wafer or solar cross… on the back was written 'Sterling’… I searched for hours. I felt silly and embarrassed to
Hollow fang? Volcano. Cat’s purr? Hymnals. Intuition?
In Thirty-Four years I can count on two hands how many times I’ve been in my right mind. It is a small percentage.
Wanting anything— What a curse. I take the simplest of shelter, revisit proven feeding grounds, do what my organs demand.
Mowing with the sickle I stop abruptly and remember crawling out the window to smoke on the roof
With certitude was the stove on th… as it always was, warming my feet… next I was on the floor and it flo… and then flashed to a different po… upside down
Think you’re doing something? Thing you’ve got some power? You can walk on coals, swallow poison and live, but who is at the helm
A Sacred Site has a genealogy, a pedigree of constituents whose good wisdom and charitable insight are markers enough
And there is but One of It So then with no-one to delight The parallax is a radical explosio… of infinite variability with no known meaning or destinati…
