This woman, unlike the other poets is known to me intimately like she is a hemorrhage of my own blood, further from a poet than I am from th...
My voice there echoes with less resonance than a single rosary said in Notre Dame As far as cathedrals remain, in my memory no more than a b...
Music, I am moved by music and the way it strains and means something, what? I am not sure… something to me, or to you, but it is different ...
It was the last week of October. David Sanborn and his wife Claire were driving away from Philadelphia on Route 1, heading out towards West ...
A muffled chainsaw hums like an insect water drips, insistently, like a clock beat A door clicks open, exposing the siren and sensual bass o...
