The Fall and Rise of Everything That Mattered, and Other Things Too

A piece inspired by late-night prowling around the back street cobble-stoned mews in Sardinia, terrorizing the little lizards and whatnot From A Stirring at Dusk Santa Teresa De Gallura There is green, there is black - evening needs little colour to impress, evening’s not always the chameleon’s whipping boy, I watch trees dip like emeralds, dangling moon and sun through cat-piss streets where dogs soon take charge, and every song is a newborn tongue tracing sounds from forgotten lives, be it blotches that splinter space between sea and night, or the foggy collage of Bonifacio soon to strike, on the hill where people made illicit talk— in Gallurese, Sardo , a canvas whispered on sky-drenched script, I saunter the greenest leaves, my shadow seared on blackened lanes of night, I write with ink moon filled their souls with - the purple clouds are the storm of words, where Jesus’ blood was tattooed by sunset (c) John Doyle

A piece from my upcoming collection A Stirring at Dusk (PSKI's Porch Publishing, New York) A great way to stir the senses, remembering a first job and the deadbeat boss... Welts It was my first welt - October 1993, earned pumping gas for some two-bit huckster down the road, in night-visions a ‘51 Chevrolet would roll in beside my pump, me, and this God-fearing coot called Klaus —  comparing welts; he would drive home to Martha, chuckling, I showing mine to dad, his knees ascended from winter-scent ditches, welts the size of Kansas— mine a prototype, straight from Rhode Island. (c) John Doyle