Poems
Poems of Antiquity
Short stories
Nano Novel
Artography*
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* -- denotes soonish
They say each morning
is a clean blank slate
ready for pressing
and mussing up.
But I think they are wrong.
I think the night is
the long hours that the
press is shoved down.
The morning is the final product
after a night of sweat & labor.
It is the dark spaces
of the day --
the cubicle, the restroom,
the storage closet, the cellar --
where the imprint from the night
resides.
While the concrete streets
and buildings simply
provide us with needed
perspective and contrast.
And just like anyone,
my favorite time is that moment
of anticipation -- when the
shadows have reached their
maximum length -- and the
Hand of of the creator
descends from above.
The world is blotted in
the shadow's ink;
the acrid darkness
flattens us into our dreams.
(The common question,
rarely uttered [never answered]
upon waking: "Where am I?"
Am I my brother, or a
character in a play?)
Then like a pin prick,
memories wash over us
like rivers (of blood) -- and opening
(fully)
our eyes, the last infinite
shadow has breached its limit
and fallen back to earth,
quietly dozing all the way
across my bedroom floor.
Shhh... don't wake it.
Let it sleep its way
into death.
I never touched it.
But I'll miss it when it's gone.