North of Reality

Genesis by omission of light and weeded words.   And shaped into a memory, the small nick points tumbling through an almost recogniz...

The tickle sun along the backbone of a dream is not enough, nor is the hum-drum chatter of birds bivouacked in back yard spruce ...

In the solitude of pen, the structure of sentence, we create.   And every idea is sand — reconsideration variable, tide, the work of ...

A photograph of time never has the opportunity to halt anywhere, to linger like fog on river or lake, like frost on new-mown lawn, or s...

Black air forms rivulets and flows down the bough of your arm, meets the intersection of substance and absence, hesitates with fe...

The bass player must consider the music differently.   With some diffidence he must view the lyrics, free, while he is sim...