Friday, September 21, 2012


it's not my place to comment or insist that your silence has left a mark, figuratively, of course, at first, but it has, somehow, climbed its way to the exterior flesh. you can stand there innocently with your hands in your shallow pockets and a half smile creaking, slowly, creepily, momentarily. you must know that you got me all wrong, i think. now, your blade-like silence is intoxicating, itinerant, illuminating, and irritating. i look around at the debris, notably the spectre of an echo in a torn note and unanswered letters, and hear the shrieking of moving chairs above and the melodic sound of a distant bird, realizing c'est mon histoire that needs some darning. you interlace your slim fingers and glance at the camera. charming. there must be an epistemological distance between us forcefully instituted by my incapacity to weigh my words, or, more accurately, to tame my cascading, ambulatory imagination. i'm certainly lying and untying a sinner's spinning story. 


  1. A very interesting and "visual" post drawing the reader in to the drama.

  2. As always, thanks for your thoughtful comments, John. I think in your capacity as an artist, writing always has the potential to be visual. (: