Yesterday, a photograph - acorns, on a table, jarred - appeared before me. Curiously, the reverse revealed a label, written; sinistral, spectral; snared within open quote marks, reckoning October, nineteen ninety-five. . Inclining from the past to present, the ink, faded and reminiscent of early morning light as this November beckons, reminding me that memory … Continue reading November Beckons
Beneath an all night blanket blues, barefoot in the attic rooms, side one of Beggars Banquet blooms and, in the static hum, . summoning my Nicky Hopkins (juju, voodoo, déjà vu): my sole, rising, falling. The carpet drums. I woo the other Rolling Stones. . But someone seems to be missing. By the kettle in … Continue reading The Other Rolling Stones.
Fish Man squats Fatima Mansions, a tumbledown townhouse on Pentonville Square. The building is in all day shadow behind iron tooth-pick railings on a scrap of dirt. The windows are boarded and the front door padlocked. But the board at this window, here, is a sham. It is nailed once at the top of the … Continue reading The Hollow Men.
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