#greg watson

Someone, somewhere, has that missing arm that snaps neatly into Barbie’s shoulder; someone can patch up those jeans, torn and frayed by time, clean out that ancient coffee pot. Someone needs an 8-track player in their Chevy, a jar of random buttons, a ball of rubber bands, someone needs that painting of Jesus knocking at the door, rays of gold light reaching from inside. Someone can restring and…

I had nearly forgotten the poem You had sent to me, one That I had tucked away To read in a quieter moment, A moment much like this – The low winter sun sifting through The delicate maps of frost Etched into the window glass, Blue folding imperceptibly Into gold, and back again, And each word offering itself Like the smallest of birds, The kind my young daughter paints With two quick…

There is always one more thing to retrieve on your way out the door. Yesterday it was your hat and gloves. Today you searched blindly for your house keys, as if you had been suddenly dropped into a stranger’s disheveled living room. Tomorrow, who knows? It seems you are always fumbling through coat pockets, grocery bags, and drawers, always turning to check behind you. Things, it seems, have a…

The world tonight breathes so slowly that you might suspect it had stopped altogether, turned its body, like ours, toward the coolness of the wall, the vast landscape of dream. Above the darkened windows outside, lines of white laundry reach across the alley, the ancient brick glowing amber on either side. You can read their secret lives like leaves in a tea bowl: the smoke-yellowed…

It’s Been So Long, Brother

It’s been so long now, brother, that I can hardly recall

which of us is the older – you who left before age could

come to collect, or me, the kid with a sudden shock

of white beard, eyes narrowing even in the softest light.

Have we passed each other without noticing, or

have we simply stepped outside the boundaries of time?

I speak to you now as easily as I speak to myself,

hardly noticing the…

Following the Map of Loss

Cold rain tapping like a thousand leaving steps; the rain knows the way, and is never lost.

But the world is continually erasing us from view, our days moving at the speed of each loss.

What can we say to the ghost gazing from the mirror? Even our finest recollections are tinged with loss.

We mark the calendar’s days, as if keeping score. Were we to lose count, there would be no loss.

Sometimes a…

Zenescope Tales of Terror #1A - The Invisible Man

Pencils & inks by Greg Watson