#errantpoet

[errant-poet]

In the thick of it with the Cottonwood Club at the Danforth gallery weaving an apocalyptic tale about the Waif and Admiral Apothecary. Thanks to John Zumpano for the shot and to Dalton C. Brink the mad curator.

[errant-poet]

Edward dear, time to wake up, the gentle nurse said nudging the old man in his wheelchair parked in a sunny spot on the lawn. He smiled at her as he lifted his head. Sweetheart, you can call me Tex.

[errant-poet]

Death rides a ragged bull on the dark nights of new moon. Smokes crystal from a carburetor. Dry laughter carries through the air like a rusted weather vane turning in a storm. In the morning people complain of poor sleep.

[errant-poet]

It's not enough to merely relax and vacation, one must be open to contemplating the Mysteries.

Cemetery. Patagonia, Arizona.

[errant-poet]

Time passes and plays its coy illusion, a lilting tune like a creaking gate. At times it's preferable to hike to the top of a hill to make a phone call.

[errant-poet]

White pine and the Lion's Head, before the wind arrived and our feet turned to stone.

[errant-poet]

Ocean Study #4 - Bodega Bay, CA

[errant-poet]

One hundred and twenty acres isn't what it used to be. Sometimes you run out luck and firewood on the same day. When I watched her ride away I thought maybe she wasn't from Russia after all.