when a father is a control bar
made of wood
and the strings snap
the puppets fall
essays | fiction | poetry | photography | art
when a father is a control bar
made of wood
and the strings snap
the puppets fall
the future is ready for
our, now available,
technological improvement
I’m a mess
A profaner of tombs
Devoted to graves
Except mine.
we kiss good-bye;
I wait for the kettle to boil. I am
happily waiting.
Pieces of me are escaping
through the pores
in the skin
of this room
I sleep on the left side of the bed
so you can be on the right
the soft drum of your snore
signaling peaceful dreams
making me smile
From prawn to prawn
the rib dries
unbleached,
aching this unbaked line:
yesterday blew
like a wind
You know the opposite of moonlight is a nest woven by darkness,
and you know your heart is a place where people ache,
where people no longer feed their birds on fire.
what it would be like to be a skeleton.
what would happen if each dermal layer melted into the air
& my red stop light flesh went with it
without so much as a snap, crackle or pop?
You make a landscape with tiny things
Turn late-night buns into morning seas
I fell in love with this city through your eyes
and from the back of taxi cabs.