In the dusk’s heavy breath, where the light falters, shadows convene—a murmuration of silhouettes stitching the sky into something alive and wrong. A fever-dream of midnight wings settles over the rooftops, too many bodies moving as one, not a flock, a Covid of crows descending like a shroud, an uninvited specter. Their blackened forms, a soft susurrous stirring the wind, a mournful whisper that rustles through the barren...

From the dust in the hand of God With a whisper in a storm In the presence of a quiet hum Watching a chicken cross the road Then creating Adam With a long odyssey ahead Breathing life into the egg

Her fingers twitched against the marble counter in the kitchen. Jeanette, a 47-year-old raptured endowed member of the neighborhood's debauched coven of decadent insomniacs, and bowling widows. Stirring the fondue, calling the kettle black as the cheese bubbled over her makeshift altar (the oven). She was speaking to someone—or something—in the pantry, a can of mushroom soup—perhaps, the autographed picture of Wayne Newto...

The story you are about to hear is true. This is the city. Charlotte Web, Louisiana. The Phantom wasn’t a man who solved cases; he was a man who closed chapters that polite society pretended had already ended in the boneyards. You wanted a problem to go away, you called on death. He operated out of an office that smelled of stale cigarettes, and beefaroni. His suits were a little too sharp, his fedora a little too low, hi...

Hear me, brethren of the Shadow, you consecrated few, do not lament the light that shrank to cinder dust, in the eternal fault, the failure calcified. Who taste the bitter loam where broken faiths accrue. For we are pledged to higher architecture, built on trust. We work where mercy ends and memory has died. We do not fashion keystones for some blessed spire, scraping the shales of sorrow, purged of name and shame. Our qu...

No leaves to rustle, no birds to nest of tree skeletons with brittle cones a haunting grace waiting the thaw with a promise green, never be as winds sigh through cages of bones a dark beauty of their final rest with hollowed music lonely and cold No leaves to rustle, no birds to nest

…the rain came down, a steady soft sound, on the roof. Running like a river, down the window pane. And so it went, lost in the flow, quiet moments, of simplicity.

In the dim lit corners of my mind, shadows coil like serpents, a pulse, a beckoning, each flicker of the candle, drawing me deeper into the night. Tracing the outlines of your face, etching your name on my skin, a tattoo of longing, each letter a thorn, each breath a shiver, cold as the grave. In this room, walls pulse with whispers, air thick with your scent—a bitter-sweetness, like rain on rusted metal, and I drown in i...

I am the drone, a wisp of sight- I felt the warmth of borrowed breath. A borrowed lens in endless night, the second life, the final death. I see my hands in theirs—a lie— I, the moon ascends a fungal bloom. And spread the curse as I drift by, with spores of light in silver gloom

…on wings the vessels chime archaic winds fro the sea from the breath of aeons passing of time doth climb echoing the gulls…

Shadows danced in moonlight over the liquor still as the copper coiled like a sleeping serpent dripping from the worm its venom of elixir fermented by the corn and wet earth transforming the liquor not just into a drink, but into a haunting, distilled memory of the night. The only sounds were the soft hiss of the still and the gentle chimes of crickets. The rest of the world was asleep, unaware of the nocturnal alchemy ta...

Windblown, through a garden of leaves earth and the towering trees becoming seeds to a thousand winds hearing echoes in nature's cellophane for all to see butterflies paying homily... "Do you wanna dance and hold my hand?"

a sweet scent of the willow near slender-leaved Cattails surround the silent pond of the golden dawn– Mourning Doves nostalgically “coo” in the whispering breeze of nature's wishing well.

Wooden candle wicks tea lights of the dwindling poetic lilac and scented old books leaving shadows in the ointment on pages of Poe whispering to Lenore

Stand by the willow and skyward blue with the unspoken voice of nature like a tree of memories reflecting life of the verdant green for all seasons bending knees genuflecting in a breeze in the moonlight over the Susquehanna