3 Nature Haiku

Joy is the error
made deep in the spin of a
bud’s awakening.

The desert wind starts
its ballet of divisions.
You mouth freezes mine.

What fog had seduced
became a concept of trees.
Forest, let me go.



For suffering gilded my faith’s shifting
contours, I transposed violence across
the algorithm of piano keys.

In the murk past the stage, the audience
swelled, an insatiable ear I fed my
history trimmed of its disfigurements.

Decades past acclaim, I grasp finally
how hermitic this stage is; this music
no longer can debate the growing noise.

Now with finality’s last thrust of strength–
my tuxedo holding the confluence
of my body the way hands hold prayer–

I brick with each note the bleak chamber where
memory’s stem is cut and flower pressed.


Image: Dimanche après-midi (Sunday Afternoon), 1953 by Dorothea Tanning

Divinity Way

Here are the first two chapters of a novella I attempted to write a few years back. It’s about a priest who relives his entire life during a leisurely stroll down a haunted street. I would classify it as magical realism. Hopefully, I’ll return to it someday.

1 Divinity Way

“This technically is your backdoor,” said the real estate agent while pressing his right knee against the old wood, its paint like the speckled hide of a wild horse. Turning the house key, he pushed forward and the house opened with a churlish crack that made Collier think of the noise his knees now made after standing still too long. Collier loathed reminders of his age, but perhaps, he thought, a shared rusty framework will bond him to his new home.

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