Books, Memory, Photographs, Quotes, Time



“The places we have known do not belong only to the world of space on which we map them for our own convenience. They were a only a thin slice, held between the contiguous impressions that composed our life at that time; the memory of a particular image is but regret for a particular moment; and houses, roads, avenues are as fugitive, alas, as the years.”

From Swann’s Way

Poetry from The Well

At my great-grandmother’s grave in Frackville


My heart’s aging faster than my skin.

A robin waits on a branch above

A sun-bleached tombstone.

My lover stirs the dusty grass,

The sun gleaming through his hair.

There is only so much time to make friends.

How is the ground so firm

Above tender skin and stories?

When our hearts stop,

We still have eternity

To meet our neighbors.

Poetry from The Well


Shame waits coiled,

Still, poised to lash

Brute limbs

When you dare

To tilt your eyes

Away from the

Dark star

Around which it



Hoarding starlight

Brilliant and dying

To set your kingdom



There you wait,

Choking on your snake

Of a weed that you

Water with words

Soaked in sour spit

That you swallow

And swish

Despising the taste

Of recycled thoughts

That beat and beat

Their way back

To the spotlight


Next time your breath

Begins heaving, lurching,

Flex your heavy tongue

And spew those

Words majestic,

Ride your breath

All the way

Back home again


Poetry from The Well


Between two flaps I’ll live

In the spaces beneath

Thirsty ink


Eyes sweep over

Pages, some looking,

And some seeing


Meanwhile, planets tumble

Farther into black space,

Away from one another


As my static world matures

To crisp sepia, oily fingertips

Blurring the scenes


To your child’s bedside

Table I’ll migrate, when she

Needs a friend


As badly you did, when you

Dripped snot and tears

All over the words that


Crystallized atop

My own snot and tears

And oily fingertips