POEMS
- THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW /3
- THE INFINITE CONVERSATION
- THE ISLAND WITHIN
- MEASURING WINTER /z
- ORPHEUS CUT OUT AND SINGING
- THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW
- LIGHT INTO TUESDAY
- YELLOW
- LOVE WAS AN AMPUTATION WITH TOO MANY PHANTOM LIMBS
- iterations of summer /24 [september]
- THE MUSIC OF LOSS
- MOURNING
- ANGEL OF POETRY
- ANGEL OF POETRY | onyx feathers
- /2 [from] iterations of summer [june]
- i•Phone *möbius strip* {hybrID.(b*oo*k)}: in*tro
- SWEEPING/SLEEPING AGAIN
- ITERATIONS OF SUMMER /4
- ITERATIONS OF SUMMER /6
- ITERATIONS OF SUMMER /8
- ITERATIONS OF SUMMER /10
- ITERATIONS OF SUMMER /15
- PAINTING THE DUST
- THE BLUE PAGE OF SEA
- THE HOURS
- ICE FISHING
- JANUARY RAIN
- HOUSE OF FORGETTING
- LAYERS
- AFFIRMATIONS [1] and [2]
- LONGING
- FLESHED
- THE SEESAW OF UNDERTOW
- NOTES TOWARD
- CHOICE[S]
- FROM THE GROUND
THE GLASS HOUSE OF FORGETTING (NOVEL)
- The Book of Forgetting (novel preface)
- The Opener of Letters, or Broken Tern (Gabriela)
- The Cellist Dreams in E Minor
- MANHOOD (ETHAN):
- “The Chasm of Infinitude” [The Glass House of Forgetting]
- from “The Sea of Hands” [The Glass House of Forgetting]
- From “Triangle” (Will, Jamie, and Sean)
- RUNNING (Ethan)
Category Archives: General
[from HATCH: performance art for 13 dancers]
.ii. | .persian duet. [2 dancers] .tell the blue jays and catbird that food assistance won’t compensate a new apple tree.. .(it wasn’t your fault).. .the white and pink butterfly bushes and heliotrope— for the swallowtails and monarchs.. .maybe: leave … Continue reading
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FLESH: performance art for 13 dancers | prolegomenon
[13 dancers: antigone, dora, elizabeth, hafiz, henry, jackson, lily, pluto, question, sam, thom, wind, zebra] prolegomenon * .no more a tradesman of suitcases, you’re tracking pages with bone chips in velvet emerald satchels over your shoulder (dislocated by moonlight). * … Continue reading
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DIRGE: performance art for 13 dancers
no more a tradesman of suitcases, you’re tracking pages with bone powder in velvet emerald satchels over your shoulder (dislocated by moonlight). august found you trading your tickets to a broken opera for a stamp of disproportionate magic. (as if.) … Continue reading
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SEMICOLONS
The garden, a micro-wasteland: cracked ceramic and glass; peat moss gone amok with ice, tangle, and quandary. Mourning doves thread dirges into blackbird noise; the blue jay cry, a semicolon. Let’s pretend to be yellow, he said—the yellow of daffodils; … Continue reading
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confessions of a con-ARTist
It’s true. I’m a con-Artist. I can’t pinpoint on the calendar the day–or on the wind-up clock, the hour this new identity coalesced, grew into its genetic paws. Strangely, I’m not one iota ashamed. I daresay I might be off-the-chart … Continue reading
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DIRGE VI, what was lost [13 dancers]
Unhinged from the ceiling, the gray moth was wind-scatter by Tuesday—then nothing left. Not even a frame for a sentence-shed. Last winter’s bicycle spokes catch a hand. Everyone in a hurry to take the remote—until then. Orphic chords scrambled us … Continue reading
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the spine is now a backwards S:
sinuous, serpentine, spongy, soggy, drowning under water, not serendipitous, not a sinecure with a quick fix, not erect at my unstrung cello, not perpendicular at the untuned piano’s yellowing keys the cat walks across at night emboldened with the power … Continue reading
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Miguel Escobar reading Dirge, part 1, take one
https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/ymy82mrkkt0trf7u0g0vx/Dirge-part-1-take-1-40min.wav?dl=0&oref=e&r=ABwp5uSLt1Has0XZaPqF_S3qXJRmHZsz4wsYo63m0rDHTYRKrsx1L-LhxJK8p3amUwvLPLuVROZJs7_nXM9n64H4F-Y_byUjmzXv0CCL6cfgxd7M0QDovhZVugveSMgxZn0TfUnMlH85C06zEXwm7pLYAhXjeBwKoGN6uJfqjXKNG-5WRV5qSsgTvCvVeonnbVI&sm=1
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DIRGE II, the afterlife smells like ghosts; softened spectacle [7 dancers]
Everyone slows down and locks the rearview mirror when the ambulance arrives. Demise crosshatches the body’s sleeves. How funny I look without skin. Lacking the memory of other cells, the cell is lonely. Inconsolable, the violas slip the page. A … Continue reading
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from DIRGE: a ballet for 13 dancers [fragment- hymns]
The planes flew through your chest at high speed because someone called you sky, and you wanted to believe. Ghost planes with no one onboard except robots counting dollhouse packages—or elegant military birds. No one had the heart to tell … Continue reading
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