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Tag Archives: Deborah Guzzi
the photograph, a cropped, chopped, headless, half-hewn body, an artist’s scheme, a palette symmetrical finger-painted on hues of crimson, blues, and blotched Kelly greens, a live sensation a riff Jackson Pollock’s dream skin-canvas, splotched and splattered see the colors bleed, enlivened by … Continue reading
Still hallowed is the well, and so they pray, offer: prayer cards, candles, and bitty photos of children to come and those now unmade, each woman rife with grief in longing’s throes. The sound of stream shakes beneath their feet … Continue reading
Boxed lures lie: belly-up, forlorn, cast-off sinkers, line-less, relics of peaceful bygone days. In vaudevillian colors of corny-orange: their hooks rusty, their prongs dulled in an unalluring huddle; the bait lies unused their drawers lowered like fathers, they recall summer … Continue reading
blank-faced the page calls each pounded pore of rice waits brush tips dance on pointed toe or fall like curtains stark poser of questioned light much more is left than finished softer surface calls needle prick the skin of white … Continue reading
The atmosphere rings with the bell-like calls of the plover flock, long before they are spotted. The flight herringbones a grey fedora sky. Markings of white and coal black weave, wing-stitched, a blanket maker’s dream. Sigh makers they close on the … Continue reading
Sometimes the creepiest places are old. There’s a smell to them of stale nicotine and rancid oil. The denizens are often as ancient as the peeling wallpaper. The plaster cracks mirror the wrinkles on their faces, stale faces with down … Continue reading