Category: poetry

Note: Imagine Tom Waits commenting on the photoshoot... They roll the lights in like rolling thunder — a couple of cheap halos and a broomstick moon.The director, he’s wearing a shabby fedora full of old applause, squints through the viewfinder like a man checking the bottom of his glass.Those little white flowers — holy little … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “Close-Up on a Broomstick Moon” – Ready for my close-up, Mr. Deville, v.4

They arrive in white, tiny and relentless,little actresses in a noir of green and shadow.The lens inhales them; a hush spreads like powder.Petals fan themselves, breath silk, and murmur—not sirens, but lullabies of hush and light—inviting a fingertip that will never quite arrive.Close: a pollen comet, a vein that writes a map,a throat of silk … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “Tiny Divas of the Silver Screen” – Ready for my close-up, Mr. Deville, v.3

In the lens they rehearse: tiny white divasframed in halogen and shallow focus.Leaves fall to black; bokeh eats the background.Each petal takes its cue, a practiced tilt,each stamen a pin-light on a tiny stage.They lean toward the aperture and hold —silk that almost asks to be touched.Up close, veins become cartography,pollen like dropped sequins on … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “Petite Divas” – Ready for my close-up, Mr. Deville, v.2

I knead until the room thins — the lamp a small moon,my breath and the wheel keeping secret time.Hands learn the clay’s grammar: press, fold, pull —a slow conversation that erases the name of the day. I am neither in nor out; I live in the seam,the narrow seam where thinking loosens its teeth.My fingers … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Becoming Liminal – Clay Experiments, v.4

Under a single bulb the studio breathes —clay cool as river-mud, the smell of earth and salt.My fingers sink and pull and fold; the wheel answers,a low, slow song that keeps time with the heart. I coax a mouth from the belly of the lump,pull a shoulder, cup a hollow for rain.The clay sings back … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Clay Experiments, v.3

In the low light of the studiomy hands knead wet clay — slow, patient, greedy.I press, fold: a thumb makes a hollow,a palm smooths a shoulder into being. The clay remembers touch, remembers rhythm;it accepts and resists, yielding its weight.I carve a furrow, map a ridge, press a thumbprint —small geographies of whatever I am. … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Clay Experiments, v.2

Dust falls like slow snow in my studio,landing on bristles, on the rim of a jar,on the carved lip of a cup that was never finished.Tools lie in driftwood piles: knives, ribs, wire,each one a fossil of a future I keep. I imagine soapstone singing under the blade,a thin, bright note—paper shavings at my feet—or … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Inventory of Maybe: Carver’s Kit, v.3

In the dusty corner of my studioa mountain of tools keeps vigil —brushes crusted like dried-up combs,a stack of canvases breathing dust.Soapstone waits, cool as a riverbone;clay sits in its bowl, damp and patient. My chest lifts when I imagine the first cut,the knife opening a soft, secret grain,fingers shaping, pressing, answering.I collect these things … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Promises in the Dust: Carver’s Kit, v.2

Basket low, strap whispering against my hip, I slip beneath the green roof—a cathedral of leaves where rain still talks in small, bright beads.The earth smells of old rain and folded paper: dark, readable grammar.I follow the thin language of trails — snail silver, deer scat, a mole's ridge —and there: a crown of ochre … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Fungal Bounty, v.3

Through the tangled undergrowth and damp earth,basket hooked on my forearm, I edge into the moss.Caps—amber, honey-laced, and bell-white—peek through leaf-sheen,each a coin half-buried in the forest’s palms. I step slow, nails tasting soil, watching for a tell:a curl of snail-silver, the pale dust of spores, a stem bruised blue.Poison hides in mimicry—painted red, a … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Fungal Bounty, v.2