Shoot What Moves
“Fire chews the heads of our paintbrushes,burns the parts of us it touches then eats our bedsheets up in flashesand reduces our books to ashes. It comes from laughter, and it catcheson your soft tongue, leaves your breath noxious, since this is hell. You’re a young French film actresswho fell fr
It did not happen in my day
You say, as if young soldiers in Bastogne’s trenches were not checking out each other’s bayonets, as if Kamikaze pilots did not plunge to their deaths full of hetero-regrets – the virile vein of the homo-erect gashed by patriarchal etiquette. As if Roma romance died in Marzhan’s chambers, as
A RETURN TO THE EAST CAPE
un-curl yourself, beginning at the edge, then moving slowly inward, breath and sinew. the world has not been kind this winter, tied you up in small sharp endings and beginnings (much like fallow coloured glass you pick from tidepools on the eastern coast – you try to hug the jagged edges smooth bu