Bering Strait









The Bering Strait

Ice has formed on
These timid stepping stones,
Unimak, Atka, Agattu.
The Bering Strait between us
A tempest of boredom
And expectation.

We each nestle
In our reclining continents,
Worn, green, velvet, and
Yours a distant, nubby brown,
Blurred by television
Storms from the North.

This strait cannot be
Bridged at any time of year.
Desire has migrated
To places we refuse to navigate
Now that love is little more
Than cold geography.***

Playing With Irony

The serious dust-up  over leaked documents being published by independent journalists has inspired me to make a little picture.  It characterizes all freelance journalists as one being “Lance Journalism” who is reminiscent of an old character of mine named “Lance Poster” who commented on message boards and was accused of fomenting discourse and launched a campaign to “Free Lance Poster”.   After all, published reality is such a refreshing change, isn’t it?


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Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room

The Age of Hiding – pt 1


When hiding behind a door one’s view of the world is a narrow vertical slice.  Sometimes that slice is just enough.  The best part is that, though no one can see you, you can hear a lot.  It’s a powerful feeling to be five years old and hear Mother calling and to just stand in the little space between the door and wall and not answer the call, knowing she will never actually try to find you.

This is how I looked in The Age of Hiding. The dress was mostly my favorite color: black.

I am not a nun.