The first time Jack had to hunt a whale he went about it all wrong. He'd never thought about it much, so his confusion came as no surprise when he woke up one morning with harpoons in his lashes. After he'd picked them all out he decided to walk down to the wharves and talk…
Two clocks out of synch watch faces of night drift by. One face, a lacquered saint, dredged up from a trunk, wrapped in virgin wool, black robes of justice trapped in the vault of a bank. An 18-karat guarantee of stainless steel and peerless dentistry, though you’d have to pry the mouth open to discover…
Bang! 1917 & a Victorian Milan. That bang was the Garcia Crespo works gone up from munitions, 400 women, their long hair gone, have gone up with 150,000 rounds. Vickers guns emplanted on the line stayed quiet for two days near Trieste. A company of Yugoslavs convinced themselves that peace had come, threw down their…
I I think I’m lying. Surely one nation divided implies another sad device of history, when I might have said road into ourselves and seemed friendly. This country nags me like a bad excuse, these critical days away from myself demanding accounts, looking at the future in my wife’s sharp face. II Rutledge, if I…
This is a bathroom/animal/castration story. Dianne and Drummond Hadley have a wildcat that was given to them by the guy that runs the Desert Museum in Tucson. It stands maybe two feet high and is really substantial if you're used to looking at housecats. It plays. If you pull a wad of paper on a…
No matter what’s the photograph, you’re the man in the center always making sense. Look through the family album, grandma’s first beau, the nice guy who, vaguely, disappeared. Dad in the leather flier’s jacket, a plane called ANZIO BELLE. In the background’s the waist gunner they chipped out of a pile of shells & frozen…
You don’t sleep in the house that stands for happiness. You dance to the music of its cracks, flexing your lonely muscles like a priest, pretending your body is a ghost come to haunty yourself. The closets, with luck, remember you as moths or shelves & kiss your open mouth with years that taste like…
Before it gets lost into the void I want to tell about a letter that got written to the Denver Post years ago. It could have been as long ago as 1947 or 1948. It was apparently written in answer to a letter that had been written earlier and, judging by this letter the earlier…
You are a name I have taken at random from the phone directory. Soon we are exchanging recipes for bread. You confess none of your boy friends chat as well as I do. Your life history is fascinating. I continue to torment you. You tell me this doesn’t matter. Since we’ve started talking you’ve gotten…
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