You have to feel your feelings Right now I feel amused, uncomfortable, tolerant, with a twist in my heart, as if I’m applying for a visa to the country of unhappiness and sorrow which gets mixed reviews on Trip Advisor. In this waiting room, we are all seedy & hopeless and the elephant…
The Milky Way’s glinting ribbon helps the dung beetle roll his good ball of shit back to the ones he loves. But blind him to the sky with as little as a hat, and he will swerve like a drunk who, if he makes it home alive, might find the family, soured with waiting,…
I miss the charcoal drawing of gallium that hung in my chemistry class. How the metal whose melting point is below human body temperature was misspelled galium, how the hand cupping the silver goop stopped at the wrist. I don’t think it was meant to disturb, to invoke a caught thief. I don’t think the charcoal spreading…
Here’s where I leave you. A dream, a quiver. A fickle bit of light after the rain. Squint: I can’t really remember now where I was going. We lick the haze, open our lips, find again pleasure in what we nibble aimlessly. Seconds become minutes always, but sometimes hours forget the days. There are…
An Elvis impersonator curling his lip as he limbers up for “Return to Sender,” a wave may develop that slight curling of the lip till it becomes a sneer. Not that a wave may more than slightly develop. The character of Snare becomes a sneer no less than Master Fang, the character of…
When I gave up praying, an $800 windfall arrived in the mail and no longer did I brew my tears into a bitter tea that paid the bills. Though it turned out to be surplus in the escrow account, once I’d have chalked it up to God—that unexpected check a biscuit for the trick…
The whale was real. So was the beach, carsick & damp in the armpits as I was. Father’s shaggy hunk of leg against my young flank. The crowd on the shoulder of the road watching the crowd smoke around the whale I mistook for a stranded barrel. Did it outswell the ocean with breathing, was…
This condition is not like hoarding for winter. There may be no torpor here, no feast, either. I see a fox, petrified in bog water. I envy the gall wasp, its egg a pincushion on the oak leaf. This disruption will likely stay unnamed. I call it faceful of dove. I call it…
Please don’t ever ask me to do it—to run through the plot points A, B, C, and D, as Peter Brooks discusses in his famous book of the same name. My mind is allergic to chronology. Do you feel the unquenchable thirst for plot that Brooks describes? OK, then, here’s a plot for you: last…
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