Biography of Stan Petrovich
Appearing in a mirage, I wandered the Arizona desert for forty years, always alone, always lost. The heat takes its toll on verbs, not adjectives. There are not two ways to approach dehydration; only one, the one with symbols. Petroglyphs in rock show the way to live without presumptuous glory.
Then, tired of the blistering sands, turning to my later years I longed for the sea. The green currents called. So leaving the Gila mirage-maker behind wound my way to Massachusetts, to watch the sea examine what it created, and to die.
Posted on March 11,2011 by pseudoprometheus
words formed before flowers–
the grumblings of thunder
the screeching lightning
eons of rain pouring
made the sonorous poetry of the earth;
bleakness of the plains defined the
sadness inherent in our thought;