On Sunday he comes to your door with a dead bat and marigolds in an old violin case. You groan inwardly (hasn’t he found a place to haunt yet?), but you can’t just leave him on the steps, can you?
December 2019
A Bit of Neural Interference in the Collective Unconsciousness
On a windy autumn night of my childhood, I dreamed that a tall young man opened a door in a tree for me. A dim blue light enveloped the stairs that led down the tree trunk. Uncertain but unwilling to
The Jungle Devouring Itself
The jungle leaves its noise under layers of grimy stones and dead vines. Thick air muffles the insect wings, bird calls, and my footsteps. The parrots watch as I pick through the silent ruins. Occasionally I speak in desperation to
The Dream Highway
The dream highway ran the narrow strip between the surf and the forest, and we drove alongside a ditch with its invasion of elephantine, doe-eyed marine creatures. I forget the species’ name, but I saw the flicker of their forked
Cracks in the Sea Sky
When you’re shipwrecked and cannot die, the page of your book never turns. You live one endless day of saltwater, wind, and the veiny red behind closed eyelids. The water will not burn your tongue nor your guts, but neither
Waking up in the Wrong World
One flower in my hand for a genie, and another in my hair for an angel. I’ve woken up in the wrong world again, this time in the place where the residents float, shine and beam. But my feet touch
The Watery Promises of Geometry
The professor stood at the water’s edge and gave his lecture to the seals. They watched suspiciously, squirming to better assess the haggard old man who stepped closer to the water with each word. They chose to keep their distance.
What Lives in the Rain
When it rains in my city, tiny lifeforms sprout on car hoods, brick mortar, and wet dogs’ fur.
Each raindrop shudders as crystalline structures burst out, the air permeated by the wet hiss of their data transfer. I close my