Penknife to paradigm Sipping on hot choices flicking through bookshelves of tall tales of painkillers and wolves at the door as if I have none of my own Curled up, a doom dweller only menaces of motherland feats of schizophrenia climbing hills, views of churches turned flats prosaic leafblowers and communal bin areas I put penknife to paradigm and find nuance circumstances turned eternal agonies Social housing turned to rubble inspired and dispirited in single gust of wind re

Out to sea, squalls whip up seahorse waves. On the beach, showers glitter crystal veils in escaped sun rays. Lugworm-casts coil between razor shells. Sea glass fragments glisten in rockpools, catch in bladderwrack and sea lettuce. Kittiwakes screech cacophonies and hoarsely she mimics their cries. Her boots leak, she fails to notice, her eyes fixed, intent on the horizon. She surrenders to its pull, wades in, still clothed. Waist deep, her knees relax and slowly sink. She bre

Solitudinal I want to be alone / floating free / from the universal / away from the glare / of the sun / and spotlight claustrophobic / watched by millions of eyes / in space everyone / can hear me scream / all those tuned to the screen / and everyone listening in there’s 26 people in my headset / checking to hear me breathe I want to step outside / become one with the dust / my muscles atrophy / blood drains from veins / my heart caves in / yo

The Memory of Stone fried onions linger sweetly sleepers stir to a strong coffee swell living in boppy pop sing-a-longs and boogie nights keys jingle laughter ripples time on time steps are bold and brave eternal memories chronicled in stone seasons pass / decades meld suddenly steps are solemn and grave voices grate doors open then slam hopes crawl under the bed fears multiply and conflate tears fall then emptiness only a click of heating drip of a tap and gusts on a For Sal

When words weave wonder Pen meets paper as ink spills. Tightly coiled spirals of loose-leaf fibers float. Muddy puddles of blue, black, and red threads form a tapestry of raw wounds, woven of half-truths, mirror images, and dreams uttered. Barely audible. Fingers trace rows of eight-point font in paper volumes delivered weekly. The cart would invariably announce its presence long before my eyes could scan its titles. No matter, volumes of words would rise as paper bound volum