zinc words & images

  • Tracks

    What I am listening to lately that helps with this writing jazz. Almost anything by Also this And this Good times

  • Selfie

    Is this me? Hair laid over one eye, Looking, but not looking. Am I Narcissus or The discoverer of a new World? Blue, Brown, cream, pink. The pigmentary fragments Of an image I recognize As a fateful friend I never knew. Adjustments and lighting Obscure and reveal further, Shifting shade and light to be Fragonard,…

  • Filigree

    My heart wants a thing It cannot name. Spreading Among rose bushes and Pushing toward sandstone walls, In a way it is directionless, Yet knows where it goes. Beyond Desire, to be taught by the sky’s Pigment and nurtured by salt Scraped from the ocean’s body. I cannot envision the place it Will come to…

  • Small Sights

    the bricked-up door manages all my visions. before i wake i hear the birds beyond mortar. from the bed with disrupted comfort, they remind me of what needs to be done. perch on. what is missed beyond that tree?

  • On the Walk

    Come to me When you are done measuring Yourself against the wind. I will put down my rake And welcome you as if You had never left. The chair faded from afternoons of sun And nights of dew Will be waiting In the northwest corner of the garden, Where you can watch The birds create…

  • In Absentia

    Hips and depression don’t go together. Used too much or too little. Either way the body compulses until materiality dissipates. My fleshy corporea hides a thing, brittle, like newspaper, carbonized, though it works harder than any laboring hand or industrial composition. “I think it wants to kill me” or at least, to cauterize my humanity.…

  • The Young Architect

    In the fall, we would make a house and take turns being the mother. There were no walls, only an architect’s plan made of crisp, crepe leaves. Rake. Neat lines. Making sure to leave openings for the door.

  • Depressive Interstate Communication

    I am not sure how to say, “I miss you” without fearing your reply. Days, months and years came upon me quickly, so that now, the past seems distant and I seem callous. I was drowning and still I circle the edge of a pond that I am at the bottom of. If today is…

  • Musings on a Single Topic #2

    What are phantoms made of? stardust memories The mist from lava dropping into the ocean ectoplasm open doors blowing curtains words spoke softly dim lamps with antique shades beaded curtains crackling branches padded steps on a wood floor lost loves good advice, in retrospect dappled forest light letters photographs portraits historic markers a large single…

  • Der Blauen Kunstler

    When you paint a house on canvas it must be blue, for this is the color of home. The soft robin’s egg edges of motherly relationships, the deep indigo of sleep and dreaming begins at your hand. Reunions, a pale sky of ephemerous greetings and embraces. However wayward the color of distant foothills and city…