A Key Rings   Reader, do you have  a ring of keys that jango without meaning or connection? I do. One key used to open all the doors  to every $1,000 car I ever owned, another unlocked  a pirate’s chest of serene hope at the bottom ‘ of an old dried up aquarium,  very…

Poetry is a counterfeit, a broken promise, a letdown, a form of disillusionment that always shorts the reader’s hopes by busting up the true into fragments of betrayal openly forcing the reader to make sense. It is constant only in overpromising and underdelivering. Such is the Trickster’s script and wholly necessary double cross. So… sue…

  All the unexplored paths are truncating, truncating like our neurons as we age. We are listening, weeding, scrutinizing, then it’s all gone in a glial cascade, in a poof of ions, the long and short of it lost.