Two pebbled knee caps
Tented by quilted cotton.
An outstretched forearm,
With five freckles, two scabs, one scar.
Shadows of perched lips mark the stucco wall
As the light from the chandelier radiates a citrusy-yellow.
Flicker and dip as they follow the orbs on the screen.
Bits of torn skin
And gnawed-down nails
Scratch across my hands,
Mapping out my fingerprints.
Curls of hair twitch under the puff of the ceiling fan
And across alabaster skin,
Stretched taught by a sinewy chest.
Exhale of exhaust,
Then the inhale of slumber.
My name is India …Read article
A mirror is meaningless to the black-lace-weaver,
for she might as well be her own reflection.
Spider lady with neither past to remember
nor future to regret.
The ultimate unexamined life,
yet she lives it on her own woven silk
calling forth her hungry spiderlings,
goading them by plucking silver strings,
playing her own dirge till her brood is roused,
and a shroud of a hundred devours her.
She who never really was, never really dies
for she segues into the next generation
and is exuded through their spinnerets
as liquid silk drying in air.
And they in turn play …Read article
The weather will be
grey and weary as an old sailor
sweeping the decks of complaint.
That weather kicking up fangs
white as Jack London’s seadogs
steers a ship heavy with allusion
to the whaling grounds
off the Galapagos where the old bull
sank the Ann Alexander inspiring Melville
to seize his pen from among the wrecked spars.
How the ambergris of his imagination
raged from the Grand Banks to the Azores.
where Queequeg posed with a harpoon
and Starbuck cautioned
against the fearless man
who endangers us all