rebel-girl-04

To steal a soul or a moment in time It’s a wonderful invention and art Snap a photo here, click a frame there Just a moment in time Trapped forever in it’s frame And put upon your wall Such as you would shoot an animal And mount it’s head But isn’t that all photography is? Isn’t that all hunting is? An art, trapping something forever Capturing something that will be stared at Possibly admired For the rest of eternity Is this what art has become?

Months grouped together like careless footsteps stroll upon the lashings accorded to me by the sun. In January I am caressed by ghosts or something as cold and invisible. They intrude upon hair, clothes; books dampen with monstrous hand prints.    Are these shells of half-dead creatures    holding themselves, ancient in a cavern somewhere    or tethered to the earth by thought? Bits of cloud, the flesh of heaven picked off like a soft disease nestle on my shoulder as if pulled from my sweater. they emerge quietly like droplets of blood. Whisper:          we are the teeth of ancient things. White drift presses upon the house