It's Still Life

Red Dust and Cotton We were in sheer cotton all day, ‘was even too hot for a sun umbrella, a perishing feel-real-heat, and at midday we stood in the shade of the Taj Mahal, in a triangular splodge, dampening down the red dust.     Poetic Asides Day 3: Triangles

3s We’re rolling dice, and it’s coming up 3s. Oddness coming up everywhere, and there’s a skull on my doctor’s desk, 2 eyes and 1 nose, again holes in oddly 3s. And I saw a child, a ghost in a shroud, 2 rounds for eyes and one for its mouth. Is it an omen, these…

I. Walking with Dreams You hold your shoes in your hand, and climb the stairs for bed. I tell you, rest before you sleep, because when dreams chase country roads, your feet will tire before you start, and even though this is a dream, and you know this is true, you cannot disguise bone weariness…

Trap if my prose speak in tongues, are my words disguised, and is a trap a trap when sprung without a mouse, or a teacup when it’s filled with milk, or a clock without two hands, and is it dawn if you can’t sleep, and is it fear without a fright. and is your disguise…

It Always Rains When the Bus Is Late If I take my glasses off I still exist, even though it’s dark as death outside. Winter’s light deflates me like a weak sentence missing punctuation, and so I stand below the flood of a street lamp, my shadow stuck to the pavement. I’m waiting for the…

  Image source: US Library Congress CC:00, WikiCommons, NovPAD Day 1: New Start