Weekly Read's blog

Great, Again

Gray regime breakfast
blunt and slow: rain pouring
intermittently, sideways.
As the television drones
of political sports,
the dry eggs assault me
with unknown ingredients.

Finally, the big game:
the crowd watches, aghast...

Hollow Bodies

Coffee house philosoph
playing open chords on a hollow body,
knock off beats penning cynicisms
over poetry,
the shutter-speed-dealers and
faux-pigmenters sullenly sly-jiving pomp and prints
to sleep with easily impressed marks,
confusing ego and creativity...

Song of the Suicide

The compost brings growth to the garden. Every rotting body
drags itself into the earth.

Cremation is for those afraid of their flesh falling to ribbons,
streaming through hairy grass,

a festival for the end of the day. The sun gives itself over to storms
to imagine the scoured face revealed

when the rain ends and, heat-kissed, the world steams into newness.
Rawness. Salt of the earth where nothing grows...

I've Drawn Monsters since I Can Remember

When I was a child I had a small flip book—a kind of notebook bestiary. Each page was smudged and brimming with portraits made of wings and teeth, of sunflower petals and horns: desires made up of scales and yellowed toenails abutting soft green flesh. I realize now they were reflections of something I did not understand, and collected from ideas of a world that seemed breathtakingly huge and possible.

In hindsight, they betrayed my desperate urge to create something that had never existed before.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve never stopped drawing monsters. But largely, these reflections have shifted from those creatures that do not exist to those that do, albeit ones that are mangled and magnified into ridged, and painful constructions...

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