BrazenEscape Latest Posts

poetry

the promise

promise me, son that you’ll feel-- the hawks’ umber-wing September-shrill that you’ll learn the voices the deathless legions borne upon her solitary cry as it slices open a reticent sky top, split from bottom east, from west north, from south each, again halved-- and within each space another world, gifted ...
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poetry

tho our sparrows may whisper

where once we’d walked together climbing over our wooded-path stones now, love, we live walking these paths, alone distant, our villages finding ourselves sheltered in different planes of existence tho neither of us higher nor lower than the other aye, nor be we beside despite our differing history quite nearly ...
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poetry

muttering shadows

a few key-turns and a mash of the rubber pedal she started right up, eager-- front wheels spinning with zealous fervor spinning freely, in the black-morning air going nowhere after a while, I realized the car was perched up on a bent lamppost the windshield, smashed on the driver’s side ...
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poetry

red swelter

in the drip-paint barn to the south, and slightly west of the mountain-house he’d built there were hundreds of glass trinkets small, abstract sculptures and such-- glittering baubles that he’d blown of molten shimmer aye, the small ways we fill-- the red swelter of our days still, I had to ...
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poetry

suburban gardens

crawling in the garden its stinging tail, twitching long, and pointed such anger such compulsion to injure a murderer’s quiet rage jailed behind tiger-hide stripes black bands painted upon saffron leaving me curious, and fearful I watched as it twitched my skin chilled under summer’s red zeal knowing-- if it ...
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prose

not of this time

The internet is killing writers. The death of art comes as a stagnation of unique expression, as a homogenization, each the same as the next, as souls borrowed, though only the scarry skin worn, the words and format, popular to a given time, fashionable and faddish, and all too familiar ...
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blog

Tall Glass Windows

Tyson might have been the last of them, an Eighties killer who captured our hearts for a time, but it ended ugly, and it was the darker parts of our hearts which were touched, awe mixed with fear, sprinkled with hate– something primal, a shining-sweat mingling of pride and shame ...
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poetry

thus, without measure

the age of a soul never known by time's ticking animus thus, without measure only this flesh-- burns to ash under the pyre's spiraling swelter and an expiry thus, just more dust, scattered but shall we ever return? the way Benny was screaming his hoary desperation into the tall night ...
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poetry

immortal teacher

sunshine-summer love we’d deserved more than what we’d taken of this dusty place that poverty which we’d accepted our souls, displaced we’d given enough-- we haven’t much time here these amber days fall over swiftly still and when the moon is full laced, and sheer in its mist of tears ...
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humor

Questionable Behavior

"To be, or not to be-- That is the question." As this famous phrase spoken by Prince Hamlet was, in fact, spoken by Hamlet, a man, and not by Ophelia, a woman, there was only one (solitary) question. Were Ophelia to have asked the question, it would have been followed ...
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