Writing Life
There is always one
bossy ass bird. He digs himself
a naked hole in the dense
mockorange, puffs out his chest and
sings at 11. The sparrows who live there
too roll their eyes and go on
about collecting tufts of red dog
hair from between the fence slats
to make their nests luxurious—
and soundproof.
-M. Ashley
This January hibiscus bud
Kissed by absence of color
My albino fingers exploring the
Hard petals the shy face of
A goddess willing to be
Searched blindly by the blind
Whose blindness comes from
Looking too much into the light.
-M.
Shadow at the tips and
Shadow at the center like
A god who is honest about
What it means to be a god.
Absence
Presence
Glory
Absence
-M.
I am legally blind so I know—photography is a weird sport for me. What I am finding so lovely about it though is that I am often capturing with the camera things I would have never seen with my naked eye. To me, in the bright day, this gazania looked like a simple white blur on a field of messy green. It wasn’t until I got home and started working with the picture that I saw all it’s beautiful purple and that soft explosion of orange at the center. I look forward to many more visual surprises the camera is bound to catch for m.
Young Son Virile Boy
Humps his way through the underbrush
Eats out every night
Comes home for dinner
Head grows into the crown
Granddad Limp Limb
Back in the cave
Waits for ointment and
His good bitch to come back
Dad gone
to town for pussy and heartburn
Where’d all the good ones get to?
Loin cloth at the dry cleaner’s
Drags dick and briefcase along the jagged path home
-M.
Dying in paradise
he still has stories to tell.
They get caught in his mane
like spittle.
An aging Hippie.
A mountain man gone metaphysical
in a California town.
A youngster by the pond
watches the koi and willfully
deafens himself.
The scruffy bird goes on
chatters to the heavy
dropping rain.
-M.
There is always one
bossy ass bird. He digs himself
a naked hole in the dense
mockorange, puffs out his chest and
sings at 11. The sparrows who live there
too roll their eyes and go on
collecting tufts of red dog
hair from between the fence slats
to make their nests luxurious—
and sound proof.
-M.
M. N. Ashley 