I am here. This is no small feat. I have worked to get here. I have scratched the backs. I have tricked my mind, twisted the words, made a fool of myself repeatedly. I have even felt like a slave to my own ambition. To have escaped here I have carefully lost my way again… Continue reading Here – a poem. No, the title is “Here”. But yeah, here’s a poem.
...before that troubled imprint, a land apart, and isles of parts, of shagged bark and burred wind...
THE THIRD THING There’s Fact, there’s fiction, and there is the third thing Manifesting in real time. Dreams. Confusing the black with the white. There’s right, there’s wrong, and then--the gray area Doubling down on a choice. Walking a tightrope, feeling the way. There’s good, there’s evil, there’s lost, there’s found, but then there’s… Continue reading Beyond the Dual
Behind the entry bench, the van gogh blue umbrella wedged at a 35 degree angle hadn't been wrap-snapped first. This would bother me, were it not wet and needing to freely drip on the hardwood floor by the baseboards. This would bother me, but for the carelessly lain pink scarf inadvertantly pooling, sopping beyond its mohair fringe. This would… Continue reading ocd vestibule
Straddling two worlds before a big move...
I was older than I remember...
To My Love/Yet to Be Tasted This street—ours—gray, blockaded with scaffold, It is our street today. Out the close bistro window white candle, pewter stand, sandy joug of water Edinburgh—ours to visit and to possess concurrent Life and candle together Juliet balcony and chimney pot International needs, wants, clashing Crashing as waves against seagull trying… Continue reading Not Yet Tasted
What shall I say of love? That it dies a thousand ways? That, like the orange sun, we all know it sets each day-- Yet we would strap it to scaffolding to keep it hung? Love is a word for only one emotion, (and that right glaring) which cannot be trapped--To love love you look… Continue reading No More a Love Sonnet
I see my desires float around him It's perfect—he has no tie to me. No hobby, no information. He reminds me of smoke, that when you open the door, it wafts out in breezes. So the thought of him is light and I become forgetful. -kerry e mckenna
Tracing my own thigh under my fingerprints I struggle to pretend it’s your hand, exploring the soft curve over muscle as if you could feel it uniquely. smiles, words heard, words lost, missed follow the digital map of fantasy blip blip blip of lost connections yet full color bravery when we faux-feel in the overt… Continue reading ALL AT ONCE