One of the tensions in the world of art is the involvement of audience… in fact, the questions exists somewhere (*nudge nudge wink wink to JC*) of whether or not art is even art without an audience.

I’ve been writing for some time now in many ways and forms, most of it never exposed to an audience. This won’t constitute anything like a Random House paperback, but I did want to share some of my creative stuff on this site.

Without further ado then are three poems. One of them I actually consider “finished” – the others I am not so sure about. I won’t tell you which one. Comments are MORE THAN welcome and appreciated… comments of any nature provided they are, ultimately, constructive.

Dec. 23rd

Up this path
is the old stone fireplace -
crumbling – its guts spilling
out in broken pieces
on a bed of skeletal straw
and yellow-gold weeds
that crunch were I walk.

Inside the hearth,
where its ancestors crumpled
into flecks of flaming dust,
a small tree is breaking
up into the thick matter -
sprawling green in
a pile of dark ash -
unaware of the meaning of the
blood that floats black
in the sky.

surprise

disconcerting, really,
to lay my head flat
against the earth’s curve -
eyes closed -
and
upon opening
find myself unflung -
moored, still, to
the bare core
despite the absence
of ropes and tethers

Feasting

I’d like to hold—
at the back of my mouth—
the clammy weight
of cold stone,
the aftertaste of copper
resin, settling;
the thick, crumbly fullness
of moss breaking apart
at my saliva,
to eat the forest in this way—
by handfuls
and sip the thirty shades of blue
with a straw
from the dawn sky.

-01.06