May 2013
1 post
March 2013
9 posts
my eyes feel sick
like my pupils have caught the flu and
are dilating themselves because
they think the sunlight will stop the shivering
The ocean is churning itself like cream
I took a spoonful for my morning coffee
And sipped away at salt and Tanzania
When evening came I scooped a small stiff globe
To sit atop and season my afterdinner pie
The morning next I walked across the curdles
Until the sun was high and I stopped to lunch on land and whey
The same bee has hovered in front of my door for the last six days
I’ve come to recognize the shadow
And the surprise at its curious closeness
The round fat of its black buzzed out body
And the phantom feeling of a solid thump against my forehead
February 2013
4 posts
get out she said
and chopped the onions into slivers
tears dropped plashing circles in the peels
and I slowly put the salt away
January 2013
4 posts
Hags and Kress (an excerpt)
I have never been on East Sands. I have seen it when it was full of people throwing Frisbees and dogs chasing sticks and small children running and falling down, but I have never walked on it. This morning, it is empty and as we step into the sand it is as if we step into the sound of the breaking waves as well and are suddenly enveloped by a staticked roar.
My feet sink into the damp sand and thousands of grains stick to my boots. There are a few shells scattered about, but nothing like the spiny blanket of other beaches. The waves are tall and angry, frothing and diving into each other. It smells like sea, something I can never quite tell if I like. It isn’t low tide, though it isn’t high tide either, but rather the strange in-between where, unless you know about such things, you can’t tell if the water is going in or out, only that it is rolling and crusting the world in salt.
