fickle,
faded fellows,
fresh from Flitwick, trickle
into the film and flatten rows
of toes
Never an Orange

There is something magical about the feeling of a new pencil sitting within your hand. To me, they are symbolic of the creative process.
The image above was inspired by the text from a scene from Terrence McNally’s play Master Class, which follows opera singer Maria Callas as she gives a master class at Julliard. The text from that scene can be found below.
******
Maria: At the conservatory Madame de Hidalgo never once had to ask me if I had a pencil. And this was during the war, when a pencil wasn’t something you just picked up at the five and ten. Oh no, no, no, no. A pencil meant something. It was a choice over something else. You either had a pencil or an orange. I always had a pencil. I never had an orange. And I love oranges. I knew one day I would have all the oranges I could want, but that didn’t make the wanting them any less.
Have you ever been hungry?
Soprano: Not like that.
Maria: It’s. It’s something you remember. Always. In some part of you.
On Brixton Road (a telestich)
But now the season’s creeping coda
blows prayers upon my frayed chapeau.
Against a heaving breast, cheap claret
waits meekly within darkness for you
to deliver the roaring silent psalm
that will redeem three godless men.
Cinquain/LXXVI
I know
you are sorry,
but I will not bestow
mercy that bears no guarantee
for me
Household Songs: The Brief and Unremarkable Life of Joseph Clarence Strauss/III
Dazzling under a golden pansy,
deceptively smooth arms
lazily beckon our inquisitive mimic towards sparkling
white porcelain.
But when four fingers meet,
small sanguinary seeds
sink into a waiting puddle of warm,
milky water.
——-
Two-year-old children are a curious bunch!
:::untitled:::
Turn down the lantern,
Dear, for tigers in the night
seek out pulsating shadows.
Fierce claws pose no threat.
Where love’s mantle has been laid,
darkness shall never abide.
Farewell to the Ancient
Fear not, for I shall
bear witness to your
broken egg body as it
dawdles on a day that
might be its last. Those
four jagged cliffs will
surely collapse before
scarlet trumpets descend
upon our land.
I will remember. And
when the violets rise
again, I shall speak of
you tenderly with a
voice spun from honey.
Sleep. Lay your weary
head upon the cool
stone. This unseen
world will fall away.
Sleep.
Silver Song/銀の歌

At a weekend festival during Silver Week, a singer entertains a crowd near Kofu Station/Kofu, Japan
Queen for the Day/今日の女王

A photographer and his assistant position a bridal couple during a wedding shoot on the
grounds of Takeda Shrine/Kofu, Japan
Cinquain/LXXIV
black veil,
who is beneath
your silk, adumbral wale?
such bewitching crimson lips wreathe
her teeth!