Artwork

Art is dead.

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Art is dead. All that’s left is a memory told out of context on a dusty shelf. Like sawdust, the residue of an event to be remembered by others. Art is dead. A recorded celebration of intuition. Waiting patiently to be reborn. A drop fallen from a leaf after a storm. Absorbed into soil and…

In a time upon once.

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In a time upon once, there was a land of sunlight and ashes. You could hear the harmony of whispers coming from the beautiful Sandgrouse. They picked at dry twigs and flapped tan wings at black flies. I huddle with her under the pupilless eye before the arrow pierced her breast. Her feathers flew as…

Exhausted

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I gather sea salt with lacerated hands and make a nest to sit in. I look into the empty sky and chew on blackthorn bushes and grapevines that have grown around my neck and died over the years. They splinter and crack and fall around my feet as I stand up and walk to the…

My Last Love

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I hold her hand to keep her from falling away from me. To a place where language is meaningless, and love is only a noun. I embrace her as tightly as I can with my four fingers in her palm. She is startled and confused by me every morning. “It’s me, Thomas, my love. I’ll…

The Piano.

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They floated through his mind upward into the ether in a natural pattern like the curl of a chameleon’s tail, or the spiral of scales on a pinecone, or the ripple of sand in the wind. Nine words. Lyrics laid over a chorus of vibrating strings. “I should have asked for help moving the piano.”

All Eight Chairs

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Every day as he left home for school, Richard would say goodbye to all eight dining chairs. Patting them lovingly as one does a loyal pet on their way to an unenviable task. On weekends, he would be sure to slide one up to the large window. He’d say it was so they could feel…

She made her own clothes.

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She made her own clothes and wore plastic forks in her hair. She reminded me of my grandmother’s cat. Not the imaginary one, the one that got sucked up in that tornado in ’62. Her apartment always smelled like overripe oranges, and she’d recite that Carrousel Tune poem by Tennessee Williams whenever we played Canasta.…
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