poetry

My dying breath is a magician.

My dying breath is a magician.

My dying breath is a magician. This sits, written in chalk dust, on the board, bored bored bored board. Metaphor, all three elements from Aristotle, those elements it’s not supposed to have (supposedly), the tradition that’s opposed (opposedly) by Lakoff and Derrida, with metaphor as domain translations or catechresis as metaphoric literality. The moment that is unexplainable is the new…. Read more →

Holocasting/Fly

Flames flap in the wind as standardsmarking spaces in which they withlittle thought of tomorrows passing drawslight succour from yesterday’s loss. The sun sign silhouetted amidst blackshadows falling across the nightlinedances in the skylight crimsondresses of evening dinner and wine. Thundrous roars peak and molotovcocktails speak freely of timeand light utterances so easily spoken nowin words that will never be… Read more →