Textures by Wayne Bornholdt
Our sleeping dogs trespass our lives— they are like hungry widows insisting on their rightful portion in a season of fleeting plentitude. Their sleep is a thick garment, textures, deep and twitching. We will...
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Our sleeping dogs trespass our lives— they are like hungry widows insisting on their rightful portion in a season of fleeting plentitude. Their sleep is a thick garment, textures, deep and twitching. We will...
Read MoreI ask you to take this scar, make it yours and set it on the mantle where urns and cats find their repose.
Read MoreIn the late 1980’s I auditioned for Yale School of Drama’s summer program at Oxford University. It...
Read Moreto the morning ritual step one gather equipment paper pencil pen notebook booklet clipboard step two walk naked striving to hold yourself vulnerable to truth and beauty step three prepare your place of meditation step four sit...
Read MoreTo Tyler I stand quietly in a shower hot as pain Write “why” on the door gray-thick with fog Feel the water draw lines on my back I try to feel where I am bleeding out Watch the “why” dissipate unanswered I stand in the open...
Read Morefor Akiho Well beyond the reach of clocks, you learned the hour of your abandonment had long since settled, that those specters referred to as your kin, if only through the recurrent clenching of your jaw, cashed in the return...
Read MoreThe tree remembers it differently, the iced black bark you’d carved my name into – a summer gesture of sticky green pulp and blade – crooking an eye, curious in its winter repose at your disquiet – the circling...
Read MoreThe dead tried everything to get into the house, shadowed milkmen and jimmied the lock through the chute, razored screens, bullied door keys from the kiddies. We woke to the smell of missing kielbasa, ice cream melted on the...
Read MoreI can still see her in wide brimmed floppy hat, denim skirt, faded canvas sandals, puttering around her yard, kneeling in her garden. She told me she wanted to be cremated, so that’s what I did. Grandma, Old World soul,...
Read MoreBlack skillet hot oil pungent the memory of kindness heavy the missing you even the handle resists my grip, more sure of yours black with a scar’s shrugged-off story this fisted world intent on harm confounded by your...
Read MoreTech dad thins to wisp strains to matter on integers and bytes thin beard thin jeans thin regard even his children thin to the buffet worryingly unprepared for the thicker...
Read MoreStamped into the cement of every corner in San Francisco sits the name of the street where you stand. You know exactly where you are in the city even if you don’t know where in the world you are going. Still, you’ll...
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