The Cup of Trembling

The sunset is made of gold. It is
made of gold, the sunset, this sunset.
It is made of gold—pure gold spills down the mountainside
and I kneel before the mountainside’s golden
spread

Kneel on the stone and burn this image into my forsaken
brain, sear gold onto my retinas, behind its sackcloth
consciousness (made of gold, it is made
of pure gold—this sunset—made of, made of, made of the quintessent
stuff)

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Booze Writing

Booze Writing She writes the non-fiction marathon, grabs her metaphysical hangover to record the distillers, blogs recipes for old martinis, notes where mezcal comes from. Serious, full-time writing about booze, barstools and body/mind benders. Codifying as a way to stop her bingeing. Is that how it goes with loneliness? Scrawling about virtuous alone as relief […]

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Out of the Museum

You realized your pain isn’t the only pain worth knowing after a slick rock flipped one hundred times in your pocket and landed on heads. How far did you travel to meet that medium: your hands in the clay of your making? Compressed so hot, change was the only thing you could see, fiery planet […]

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Harvest Moon

She doesn’t want to hear the elderly couple kissing in the seat behind her. She wants the bus ride to work to be the comfortable silence of people who don’t want to talk to each other. She doesn’t want to be reminded of things that last. Because she’s back at the beginning again. Well, she’s […]

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