The Edge Of Things


We mistake our downward-spiral for that of the world, the radiance of forgotten suns, leaden doubt, to sink with the heavy weight of seven spheres, or cast wonder back upon the ledge where we rest on the edge of things, raised to the octave higher, to the outer-most exteriority and back again.

-Josh Fleming

Image by: Tatiana Gulenkina





Behold…your lovely shell, unending, yet falling away, already it has begun, yet it outlasts the sun, the ripening and ruin of the flesh, the universes as far as every star, the wild musician, hear again, in silence in fury, followed by echo that is your own, torn apart but so complete, in solitude the mirrors disguise, yet languorously flows beside, fleeting birds that dive, into the waves made of nude twilight, as gold enfolds the shell, the corpus is complete.

-Josh Fleming

Remixed and Re-Imagined with words of my own from: Rainer Maria Rilke, Buddha In Glory and Stephane Mallarme, Little Air.

Image by: Tatiana Gulenkina




Street In Agrigentum


There is still the wind that I remember
firing the manes of horses, racing,
slanting, across the plains,
the wind that stains and scours the sandstone,

and the heart of gloomy columns, telamons,
overthrown in the grass.
Spirit of the ancients, grey

with rancour, return on the wind,
breathe in that feather-light moss
that covers those giants, hurled down by heaven.

How alone in the space that’s still yours!
And greater, your pain, if you hear, once more,
the sound that moves, far off, towards the sea,
where Hesperus streaks the sky with morning:
the jew’s-harp vibrates
in the waggoner’s mouth
as he climbs the hill of moonlight, slow,
in the murmur of Saracen olive trees.

-Salvatore Quasimodo

Image by: John Howe




Incident In The Zoo

From Prairie Schooner

The little fennec foxes from the veldt are shy
And quiet and they keep
The largest ears of anything so small
Wide open in their sleep.

There in the corner of the slatted cage
Stirring awake
The shudder at the city’s iron pulse.
You cannot make

Friends with them. No one can make friends with them,
They are too shy
From fear of the shaking ground, the thunder
From track and sky.

They move in memory among mint leaves.
Their lives are bound
To a lost land, all night their ears have captured
No friendly sound.

Only once did I see their ears uplifted—
Wild hearts so wrung!
It came as the lion house—remote and dreadful—
Spoke, in its tongue.

-Loren Eiseley

An in-process exploration of writings about life