Photographer, writer, filmmaker, wandering lost soul...
The foundations under the house are three feet tall. A cobbled path leads into a chain link fence, crawling with blackberry vines.
By A. F. Litt7 years ago in Poets
By December, I have to tell my boys, the fish are gone. Under the pioneer bridge, the falls still fall but the native platforms
Slipped words in the night. Not a punched gut but steely all over like a hangover, and it comes with a hangover.
Like the numbered dots in your old Wonder Woman activity book, Like the re-appearance of your old ‘70s chic; New, then old, then new again…
On the right side of Everything… A sunrise, a sunset… Direction means nothing As we bathe in the confused glow Of first or last light.
The sun paints the sky as it nods, out of sight, into the sea and the moon rises, out of sight, so high above, Emerging only with the dark.
Sitting at the window table, watching the headlights turn to taillights in passing While an open door offers nothing but
The wind has died with the sun. Now the waves lap gently Against the soft shore. Before me lies the Lights and shadows of all expansion
I never wanted to know what the word Oncology meant. I never wanted to know what chemotherapy I.V. bags looked like, with their huge poisonous substance logos
Stalks of wheat are punished by the hail. Winds riot against the battered pickup. Worn boots press the mud. He carries the Earth under his
pulled from the riverbank blown together from dust blown so far above the earth so far below the sky as the wind blows
Three days later... One thousand feet, might as well be miles, above the tides below, I stand on the dry, clumped dust