Poems: Messages in bottles
Elevens: Forgotten things recollected in elevens—11, 22, 33...
Sacred Trespasses: Contributions to the literary pages at Sacred Trespasses


I once knew a boy who wanted to summon a demon,
So he hailed up an old Czech one using spells of his mother’s tongue.
Is it evil
To meet a craving?

He stank with demon, rotten, appalling,
The sour retch of rats dead and swollen in the walls.
A shadow moved like lumpy humming under his eyes.
This astonishing, putrid reek.

He had a soft, breaking voice.
His hair remained and did not change its part. 
His shirt stayed neatly tucked. Static. 
He talked in mutter.

It was not something to take lightly, as perhaps he had, at first. 
It is a distinct substance, a demon, and it did not arrive whole
In hellsong and triumph, as you might think, but over years, 
Quiet as a buried stream, a mastery of patience.

Anatomy of a Sentence: Paul Celan

Snapshots from Antelope Canyon