If torture is the Queen of Truth then what is the King of Truth? Could it be the Black Dog, ennui, accidia, can the King rule by the weight of the ink (oh, I pray not the pixels!) on an execution order? Could the King be numbed by dum-dum fever? Could the King be a…
Osaka Hard to imagine Basho died here in a rented room above a flower shop in 1694, as I pause today on Dotonbori Street, shoppers brushing past on either side, to gaze at the giant red mechanical crab stretching its legs over the door of the Kani Doraku seafood restaurant, its eye stalks rotating…
1. Construction When the road was not a road but a flooded mouth of broken teeth husband and wife parked at the spring-swollen dam. Above a chorus of peepers they bickered the radio news unloading their haul: soft pine, tongue, groove. They shouldered the wood under a catchpenny moon. A quarter mile down they filled…
Steam lifting from the highways, ascendingto the heavens beneath the misery of commute,fires below the pavement. I have become a better driver by the standards of Houston.I will hurt somebody if they deserve to be hurt.No, OK, no, but I’m an expert in menace. All this blinding steel and glass, we’ve madethe world a brighter…
Dear, neither of us has anymoney. Let’s saywe leave that field open, as inwe don’t complete the form. I see nothing heresays it is required.Maybe this is the other kindof field. Grass, etc. That makes sense to me.Dear, neither of us has anymoney. Let’s saythere’s an Adirondack chair, the affordable plastic kind.Maybe those are rubber.Maybe…
The boss wears a white vest a white face through the hole of a whitevest the boss keeps her body heat in the white vest 700-fill-power down power down the boss the boss keeps her power her power is down todaythe boss’s new boss doesn’t like her the boss’s old boss doesn’t like her it doesn’t matter…
If only our children were colts, and sensible enough to be good at one thing.Running. Jumping some. Looking adorable.They would deserve our devotion.Think crepe myrtle, nudged after a brief rain. Think zealots. Think ocean waves, if we’d enough sense to give them unique personalities.Everywhere you look, willfulness. Bountiful willfulness.And these days it’s the children you see playing…
It’s not the shore; it’s the ocean that opens. Devil, make a mountain of me for the water to dwell against. I became aware of my methods and the methods changed me. Soldier, you make my body a map on the floor. It’s what the door is for— hesitation—a hand that wants to be a mouth…
the horses are filthy in their winter coatsgrubby and mattedmanes mended with haythey flicker between snows like medieval ordersof spiritual pilgrims; seenand invisible—unseen and realthe blizzard continues and the world is the windyour eyes close to slitsinside the drift and howlthe horses aren’t yours / not even broken to ridestill they help you get homeas…
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