The Art Divas / Divas of Verse

The Archeologist   In one who doesn’t speak the story petrifies, gets stumbled over, causes hurt. Then, says the man who should know about t...

Lullaby in Echo Our ancestors didn’t get everything right and died like several of their dotted letters and many declensions. What they slan...

My Hole. My Whole. what to call you who i’ve slept beside through so many apocalypses the kind that occur nightly in this late stage of the ...

Winter The ten o’clock train to New York, coaches like loaves of bread powdered with snow. Steam wheezes between the couplings. Stripped to ...

Temple of Poseidon, Sounion   My father drives the boat back to the cape. The wind is cold as we hike up the cliff to the wilderness around ...

The Lights Are On Everywhere   The Emperor must not be told night is coming. His armies are chasing shadows, Arresting whippoorwills and her...

Theory of Memory   Long, long ago, before I was a tormented artist, afflicted with longing yet incapable of forming durable attachments, lon...