The Box Collection

         the sparrow visits hospice windows, head cocked blinking alive black eyes. So many deaths that dark glass absorbed. Now, fly back to decorate your nest.         the nurse contemplates the dust on the desk and the long snow covered commute home.         the relatives are blocked off by the pearly gates of hope and so they smile gratuitously like he had a 2-way ticket.         the man never returns. GREGORY MARK SONDROL © 01/15/2021

The Haunted Market. On our way in: The white witch, in her ghost cloak, got caught in a whirlwind escape. She was thrown to the ground and lost her misty ethereal form thudding to the dirt. The town folk cuffed her and took her white hooded mantle off. You walk into the undead’s strolling character carnival. Everyone is enticing and selling something.Surrounded by a library of stained glass; a lady with fine gray hair mixed w/ enchantment does her lost art of glass-cutting. G

Barbie is naked in the yard again. Next to the melted microwave that burnt her house down, almost. The highway traffic is fast, heavy, pounding, and unconcerned. And there is no trace of her. GREGORY MARK SONDROL © 02/09/2020

Even her eyes vanished. Memory slips like: in the dead night we all stroll around a vast parking lot one streetlight a town of blue dreams another forgetter swimming in the head obscure nightmare time a low-tide of information barely recall those features she was an apparition she must have been even her eyes drowned. GREGORY MARK SONDROL © 10/3/2019

I shrug for what? The atrocities persist. When shall we forget the corpses piled in the ditch? Glory glory to us and our gravestones buried. Glory glory to us to block out the dead eyes wished not to wake. Glory glory to us to march on the tilled dirt until dried veins beat not to a hollow. GREGORY MARK SONDROL © 8/18/2019

The lady in a periwinkle hoodie, with eyes of a goat, stares, nods, then continues to murmur with hands out barely hovering over the smooth fur. Limp then startled, the blinking creature comes awake out of it with 2 pupils shocked by light. GREGORY MARK SONDROL © 8/11/2019

What a hurricane. Gravitas. Wondering inside circles. All a sloppy walk. Space does not weave us, yet we grab aimless. A strange card flips. A hammer hits another nail. In the musty local hardware store a man crumples one last time. Sirens scream to cold window panes a clueless night. A whirlwind ensues billowing murky mind all and all it is a garden of neglected moss. The ceiling sinks in.The work has been undone. The work has not been done. GREGORY M

Wardships windswept shore to shore wornweather planks blood dripped in the knots wild all in wisdom’s wastes cool pigeons know passing over water scarred orbs warlds of mobs multimimetica the windigo of the mirror. Are your moraleaves graveworthy? These clothes have no bayonet holes so I wear away. GREGORY MARK SONDROL © 7/28/2019