Even when Death inhabits a poem, he does not own it. He is a squatter. In fact, Death owns nothing. – Todd Moore
In Budapest, you become the things that are moving towards you. Along the Danube, seagulls are drinking from potholes. The 7:19 bullies a crushed Lada down the tracks as a cleaning crew calmly passes through high rise office windows. In Continue reading lawrence goeckel | budapest
Three Christmas Still Lifes -1- Shoulder holster slung over his chair, a weary homicide detective sits in his office trying to explain how he ran over a last minute shopper with his arms full of Christmas presents, during pursuit of Continue reading lawrence goeckel | three christmas still lifes