Time yawns over the exhausted linen,at best a tiresomeacquaintance. An ersatz luxury,specious sensuality,the palm of the dayopens to you. The suggestion isspace is too grandfor error. But Doubt seizes you by the crotch. Sunday equals Monday with matching moods of pianissimoair.     Repeating,           reciprocating tasksecho. The charge of bright thought falters at the turn. Emerald theories provedust-worthy.  One wants an islandlarge enough to think. Continue reading Plenty by William Ray

1. Start with interior,Knowing there’s confirmationOf measurelessness.In essence it’s the nothingnessOf solitude.Night air tinged purple. Move on to superficial wounds—Emotional and physical.By comparison, a spiritual scratch—aGray glimpse of aPasserby on a windy day. A swear, an inconvenience. End with theCountable but infinite,The faces trod, limbs crushed,Burned earth.Crisped brownThat turns you back inside: Vast.Solitary.  2. Take It.  Take Putin. Take Xi.Take Trump.Put them in the sea.You made them. … Continue reading Catalogue of Pains by William Ray