It’s the day after Christmas a flat gray morning where the rain has fallen on the crooked streets and no one has stolen our newspaper, its headline denouncing the young Nigerian, someone’s devout beloved son who tried to blow up a plane, my own son half asleep on the couch in his Levis and unraveled…
In a kitchen where mushrooms were washed, the mushroom scent lingers. As the sea must keep for a long time the scent of the whale. As a person who’s once loved completely, a country once conquered, does not release that stunned knowledge. They must want to be found, those strange-shaped, rising morels, clownish puffballs. Lichens…
I am on my knees again, mop without stick, over old fir trees turned into flooring. A thought stood once in the middle, near the cookstove, left heel and right heel. Left hand and right hand, I wash around it. Thought without handle, thought without hands, without lemons or Serengeti. One breath, another, one corner…
Loud enough for Stentor himself, the waiting-room video recycles hour after hour the same weary sequence reciting the grim signs of glaucoma, advising Restasis to increase tear production, praising the League of the Legally Blind, which is what I am in one eye, the bad eye, as if it had done something wrong and needed…
Death, in the orderly procession of random events on this gradually expiring planet crooked in a negligible arm of a minor galaxy adrift among millions of others bursting apart in the amnion of space, will, said Socrates, be either a dreamless slumber without end or a migration of the soul from one place to another,…
Under the smallest bentback cricket leg rotates this enormous planet attesting to a cosmic order, surface washed in light supposed to heal all wicked men: paralytics, lepers, those whose mouths are packed with pebbles, blind crows instead of stomachs, telltale signs of shame. In a field, a black hood over my head, I stood and…
Wild mint at our door, honeysuckle, fragrant August wind shifting, dying—nectar, salt, all one breath. Dragonflies mating in the greeny shade of the tamarisk, their brief lives unfettered. On the shore tiny green-black mites, terns— and the calligraphic beach grasses yearning with the breeze like a printmaker’s lines. Sand-washed, sun-warmed fragments—“sea glass”: wines tossed—when?—from a…
“If god is everywhere then he is also in this bottle.” —Ben Vautier How unlucky that god would lie low for so long in a fluxus gallery in St. Louis. Maybe not. Maybe we’ve overlooked holy rubbish everywhere, sacred cans and cartons in trash cans worldwide all being pecked at and treasured by animals who…
David plays him as a Yid with an accent and a stoop. To Patrick he’s the ur-outsider aping the locals. He wants what translates in Italian— money more than a child whose Christian not Hebrew name’s the Tiffany of 1580. Trading her mother’s ring, she makes Dad’s marriage look as legit as a monkey’s. Hire…
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