Within Thy wounds hide me. Anima Christi Anonymous, 14th century Lo: Gethsemane; as well, its vintage consecrated by His transformative Passion’s dramaturgy—abrogative, not regenerative, for the mintage of stigmata imprints Caesar’s coinage indelibly. But what is God’s to give […]
Love must not be, but take a body too Air and Angels —John Donne The primal metaphor has been transposed as sleep an affiance with death eludes for death defective is but sleep. Alludes to resurrection now: a dawning rosed […]
Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not over me; but weep for yourselves, and for your children. Luke 23:28 All gardens have now become Gethsemane: forsaken shadowscapes of sterile blight where no solace may be found, nor any light. Branches cruciate dominate cruelly. […]
for Adam Sedia[1] But why against one poor poet, a hundred men? "Cyrano de Bergerac" Edmond Rostand What dreams do come to distress needful sleep, to cause me wakeful to take up my pen and write [...]
They seek him here; they seek him there. Those Frenchies seek him everywhere. Is he in heaven?—Is he in hell? That damned, elusive Pimpernel! —The Scarlet Pimpernel, Baroness Orczy “Come now, let us be reasonable men as befits us in this epoch, this age, of enlightenment. If such it be, then why must we continue [...]
For Exander, on his second birthday In this egalitarian age of trans(en)gendered equivalencies work-product art exists, no more or less, as a fungible proxy for any other unit of work-product art; none are good, so there can be none better; to be deemed best but sleight-of-hand prestige: counterfeit currency for consumption. This present is nothing [...]