Should we care that a man was held upon re-entry to Trump's citadel? A real American, Muhammed Ali's son, stopped at the border for his religion: Detained for beliefs, for his father's choice, once the loudest, most American voice.
There, feel suspicion shifting, with the volute of winds, drilled, air-cracked, this wooden floor, almost set lifting, with me tied-to, in Ulysses contract, waiting upon a messenger's distract: A low across my nervous squall, you, my storm, could destroy this all. And I shall sleep through falling trees, as I did once before, in another … Continue reading The Storm
That slightness in her captured self, artfulness in over-lit exposure: an eye upon her white skin, heightened by arts on her smooth canvas: to be closely examined, a laudatory touch in better conditions: now an old man's job, to be the critic.
This unwelcome wash of fatigue - a tide - a fall from awareness - felt in tipped eyes - cross-stitched by my ill-fit disease - me - an early riser - not any longer - as this wave drags
I return to my schooling over parquet flooring, in repeats of bruised corridors, between their mending places, but now to hear about bug fixes and performance improvement. This Parents Evening of the lost, (always missing an apostrophe?), in a maze worthy of Daedalus, where hard logarithms rule my expanding distance from kids: I compare and … Continue reading Parents (sic) Evening
In my dreams, there is silence, not that conscious switch-off ...
You, mine, ever-untouched a local distance, my unexplored smallest thing, my yet-to-erect, my yet-to-strip, huge-to-be mistress, still without a cry under me, here, your Fisher King, moved, no place, a groin-wounding.
It is hard to know where time has slipped, how each of our days are torn, tossed words...