h o m e........
p a s t   i s s u e s....
s u b m i s s i o n s....
l i n k s





On lines from Distant Days by Benjamin Foster and Joy of Man’s Desiring by Jean Giono

The dear air struts the streets like a peddler (cat with its tail straight up) and I grab its
elbow. I am as beautiful as day and bring good luck to everyone. And they know it. The
hair on my arms and legs is standing straight up and I have a stitch in my side. We’re a
dashing (to the river of the horizon, silver shimmer.) couple. I meet the air’s that is also in
. cousins and sisters and suitors, am introduced all around, then everyone starts
talking at once. I’m only just beginning to speak the language and they laugh at my
perplexity. I’m a friend of the bride and the groom and love all the sequins and bouquets.
I made my beau get me have a gardenia corsage for my wrist and all the relatives admire
how dressy it makes the air wafting like chatter and I have to agree. I’m keeping my joy
with me, right now, and there was almost a second, yes there was, when I believed that
this time I could.


Be a ghost! Or so it would seem. It will precipitate.  Either eager or hesitant to.  It will 
hallucinate. Because. Visitation. Or rather. I will also wake. So I bless. Besides. Is it
blind? Or so they say. Unblinking. As a pane. In reference to. As in milk. Besides.

A letter retrieves. So to speak. Fulsome, as it happens. It drops. Vacuum. Ne’er-do-well.
In suspension. And so forth. Remind me. Twelve and twenty. Who can say? Titillate
multiplication. And then some. Meanwhile, by the way. It stutters. Will it need?

Thank you. Set forth. Ascending in all likelihood. Fight, please. So that. It grasps. In
perpetuity. Anyways, did you really? We succumb. Stirring constantly. The Voice. By
the way. No, no, no! Forget all this. I am afraid.

............... LINT DAUGHTER

I ghosted myself to cling to her, airy as a dust bunny, light as a zygote, 
flammable as a silo. I caught on the mesh and all my colors turned gray.

She whisked me away, my succubus bits successfully lit
in the corners and tangled with the cat fur, her black curls.

Every day is laundry day. I am erudite, absorbed in
the Philosophy of Colander, Cheesecloth, Grater, Cage.


Emily Dickinson is in a snow dome and bits of plastic circle around her. She wraps night 
more tightly around herself. Inside the dome is an igloo where she can hide when she is
periodically shaken up. Sometimes she doesn’t make it in time and swirls around the
perimeter of her life. Sometimes her world is turned completely upside down.

The night whirls itself around Emily who isn’t really given to improvisation. She’ll clear
her throat for you, though. And you’ll just have to wait as she does for days on end.
She freezes to the ground on those days as the confetti settles around her feet.

She knows how to fly or at least what it means. You might think she has no secrets. I will
not be the one to give them away. She wonders if there’s anything else to life. She is
afraid that the answer is no. She is afraid that the answer is yes. Definitely the answer is yes.

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