Tag feral_animals_of_the_soul
Cumberland Island horses are the monsters of our ghost. Feral now, released from human work and victual and sport, they roam the island off the southern tip of Georgia’s coast feeding on whatever’s sweet, green and low—sea oats and … Continue reading... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I’ll thank the surly male tuxedo cat for ushering me back Outside. For years Domino has showed up for food and never let me close; feral nature bullied him to bourne beyond my touch. It took five years … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
space I spent years in booze’s blackest forest, blundering every night from road to bar to road to bed like some hunter-gatherer of the Abyssal Age, so deep and lost inside the wild of uncorked spirits that blackout was the only … Continue reading U... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
space Hear me and you’re witched; sort and I’ll derange; scatter and I’m found. But name me and I’m gone, into wilds you’ll never recognize as such. Nothing’s changed down all these years, though my folk have dried to vellum: … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Tear all your postcards as fine as plastic sand: Red tide means suffocation: Can you understand? Spawned by human waste from sources agricultural and septic, algae courses and spreads, devouring all the oxygen in water, killing all us seafolk. … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Here’s a skull now; This skull hath lien you i’ th’ earth three-and-twenty years. —Clown gravedigger in Hamlet, Act V, scene 1 He is a ghost, a shadow now, the wind by Elsinore’s rocks or what you will, the … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
space I spent years in booze’s black forest, blundering every night from road to bar to road to bed like some hunter-gatherer of the Abyssal Age, so deep and lost inside the wild of uncorked spirits that blackout was the only … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
… to be wild and perfect for a moment … — Mary Oliver Once, a girlfriend read “Peonies” by Mary Oliver to me over the phone, sharing the poem in our ritual last daily moment of loving while … Continue reading ͛... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
space Hear me and you’re witched; sort and I’ll derange; scatter and I’m found. But name me and I’m gone, into wilds you’ll never recognize as such. Nothing’s changed down all these years, though my folk have dried to vellum: … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
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