What I knew was that part of my body was leaving. A pinch of it on the flow out through a bare arm surrendered to the fluorescent scrutiny the clinic. Like a bite, I was told, this tearing into, and yet I did not look, did not care to see the thickening in the vial,…
The Man with the Spotted Dog I was sitting at an outdoor café across from the ocean in Florida when I spotted the man with the spotted dog. I thought it was interesting. Me at a seaside resort and a man with a spotted dog. It reminded me of the famous story where a man…
The air turns red: rumors of sex, death rumors, rumors of rumors, offering their feigned collective sympathy. So sad she dumped her latest husband . . . Tragic that he showed up sloshed (again!)— at the wedding reception, staggered into the cake, face-down at the tiny feet of the sugar couple . . . Poets’…
Tim O’Brien, Tomcat in Love, a novel: In his seventh novel, O’Brien makes a brave and hilarious turn with Thomas Chippering, a professor of linguistics, Vietnam vet, spurned husband, and unrivaled womanizer. (Broadway)
My life ago, in this renascent slum shabby Jews in sweatshops, with irregular papers, wherever they came from, gathered mid-morning around a samovar enthroned amidst rows of Singer sewing machines. They trusted the Republic. They were last seen being beaten with rifle butts onto sealed trains. Their great-nephews are Orthodox extremists; their great-nieces are hash-smoking…
. . . But my mind, gone out in tenderness, Shrinks from its object . . . —Randall Jarrell I want to find my way back to her, to help her, to grab her hand, pull her up from the wooden floor of the stacks where she’s reading accounts of the hatchet murders of Lizzie…
desire prize ambition lakeside lupine, clear place— —— For a minute prizes didn’t matter because the black and white spider sat in the daisy. Two ducks along the shore that the ice storm had ravaged, so that there were more blue lupine than before— And in fact everything was more…
Sometimes I have to squint to see clear and used to think this a fault of light— God’s failure to beam the intended world bright enough on the brain pan. Now I know it’s age, my own worn optical works that blur leaves to smudge. Justice wears a blindfold, and the firing squad captive…
My good friend who these days despises the newspapers Complains this isn’t news but gossip, a talking down, In brief sidebars, in the mathematics of The intellect, from the highest To the lowest common denominator, The front pages with their treaties signed and breached In an afternoon, the borders Fixing and unfixing themselves Like…
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