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“Place in writing often exists at that intersection between the reality of place and one's imagination about that place -- what one believes, hopes, or imagines about the various possibilities of oneself in that place.”
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“It may be that places exist in order that memory itself has a home.”
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“Having your evening coffee over
A field guide of trails or alpine blossoms
& so I need now to ask you
Which of the old journals did you first
Open to a map of my long wandering
When did you first know I'd come back
& how did you find yourself here
& how did you know this single lantern
You are reading by was the last possible
Light to lead me home?”
― The Auroras: New Poems – Masterful Poetry of Intimacy, Music, and Sensual Beauty
A field guide of trails or alpine blossoms
& so I need now to ask you
Which of the old journals did you first
Open to a map of my long wandering
When did you first know I'd come back
& how did you find yourself here
& how did you know this single lantern
You are reading by was the last possible
Light to lead me home?”
― The Auroras: New Poems – Masterful Poetry of Intimacy, Music, and Sensual Beauty
“When I came to see you
It hurt me how thin you had become
In the months of addiction & disease
& although your particular abyss
Was a man & not a drug
The degradation was the same
The same wasting of the flesh
The same tapped-out well emptied
Of the least leaf of emotion
The same frozen rage”
― The Auroras: New Poems – Masterful Poetry of Intimacy, Music, and Sensual Beauty
It hurt me how thin you had become
In the months of addiction & disease
& although your particular abyss
Was a man & not a drug
The degradation was the same
The same wasting of the flesh
The same tapped-out well emptied
Of the least leaf of emotion
The same frozen rage”
― The Auroras: New Poems – Masterful Poetry of Intimacy, Music, and Sensual Beauty
“She was walking in the cherry orchard
& the moon washed the stiff folds
Of her gown with the misery of the century
& ah those blisters of consciousness bursting
All around her in the air like
Descartes’ shooting stars piercing the blackening sky
As above her those dangling constellations of
Tiny cerise planets trembled
With the held expectations of the evening just past
from “Cerise”
― Prism
& the moon washed the stiff folds
Of her gown with the misery of the century
& ah those blisters of consciousness bursting
All around her in the air like
Descartes’ shooting stars piercing the blackening sky
As above her those dangling constellations of
Tiny cerise planets trembled
With the held expectations of the evening just past
from “Cerise”
― Prism




