A Flying Pony

a flying pony

there are quondam memories
few
and far between
I hoard them up like
precious treasures
secrets
hidden away in heavy carved wood chests
gloated over
in the long
watches of the night
but I will show them to you if
you would creep with me up
the creaky attic stairs into
the dusty sunlight of september
afternoons
filtered through grimy windowpanes
show you
the tattered photographs
read you
the fading letters
the timeworn remnants of another life
tell me
tell me it's more
than old magazine clippings
in a disintegrating shoebox
tell me the difference
between a memory
and a dream.

Devotion's Visage

devotion's visage

a camera, too, is but a tool -
a simple box, a clear,
impartial lens that sees
whatever you want it to see.
I saw you.



(and the original:)
devotion's visage

I don’t think you ever realized

my pictures were my devotion to you.

no one ever sees you

like one who loves you.

the greatest and grandest masterpieces of art,

glorified forever in the opulence of their gilt frames,

were still made of paint.

a camera, too, is but a tool -

a simple box, a clear,

impartial lens that sees

whatever you want it to see.


I saw you.

autumn for a moment

Autumn for a Moment

one of those quiet moments in between;
a white green garden place.
a sun’s day morning, an early afternoon.
roomie’s other half and I sit and stand,
philosophizing in the open quiet of a recently vacated room.
one hasn’t progressed in time for nearly half a decade,
the other’s self has lost track of time altogether.
happy meals are American philosophy, we decide.
they depart
I meander barefoot through the apartment,
attentive to my soles’ explorations,
sink slowly back into the white comforter on my bed.
vertical slats of white slice the blued glass of the window,
scatter shadows drifting about the room.
everywhere outside, along the quiet streets,
golden leaves are falling, collecting, rustling, in the drains.