Parking Spaces
pink of her pressed blouse.
in a bag, sent down the river.
amid hundreds of orchids.
After the stroke, fate caved in.
in line with the others.
Take me back to bed, please take me to bed.
she began to float again.
she wanted to be.
As a child, I often wrote plays and performed them with friends. I wanted to be an artist who lived in an attic. I studied both visual art and literature in college and actually lived in an attic for 13 years. Poetry was always a vegetable I didn’t “get”, like beets, yet that’s what I wrote. Now I think poetry and beets are mysterious. Steamed beets are especially delicious with feta cheese, walnuts and pomegranate juice. I catch the muse’s seeds from conceptual ideas, observation, memory, and dreams, along with found imagery and found words. Being in kind with surrealism, I observe the magic of inexplicable coincidence. |
Randomly Accessed Poetics 