There’s a setting for every story and a season for all senses. Though not all pages pair with all potions, and not all parchment promises...

1. So many poems were written for you, 2. about you, but none of them with you. 3. You never even cared enough to read them. 4. I guess...

In 1966, John Baldessari burned his entire collection of paintings. The ashes were returned in Nine urns, One URN was the size used for...

…latches onto the nearest passing thought like a leech on fickle flesh. it won’t pry or peel, but remains stuck like clothing left on...

Just when I think I’m done, said everything that can be heard, reached the end of sharing it all Just when I think there are no more...

The pumping won’t cease. It pumps. And it pumps. And it pumps. A poetic heart races with creative resilience. Never changing its left...

Stuart gave David a ride in his cab while still pursuing his lifelong dream creating African American art then bumped into Alan a...

A weighted sadness Pulled me under How far I didn't know My problems were circling Like sharks contemplating a painful bloody kill...

There where we walked over stones between cliff face and sea trees stretched our spirits to sunshine, to sky and the stream’s drill awoke...

In solitude, Loneliness arrived on time, Whispering to my fears, “It’s too late, In this flesh encasement, To try again.” The problem...

On my way to work this morning I saw her at the bus terminal crowded in a corner shielding herself from a world that looks down on her...

You don’t see me standing on the edge, Or what it’s taking me not to fall. You don’t see me ever getting that low, Or how I could even...