Isaac looked like the tortured priest in Open City, and we lost him decades ago. I remember two fat gangster types who had gone to his funeral and were bragging in the tavern later that they had picked up two good-looking girls at the mortuary visitation and had laid them, and I thought Isaac would…
A version of the modern mind: long drives, flat landscapes, trees close up (the present) or far against the horizon (the past) and fences strung tight as the future, middle distance. The effect of distance on the slow movement of landscape past the traveler, this variorum of the present: the family on long trips to…
The organ donor who smiles in the leathery dark of my wallet from a driver's license has already struck one woman— elderly, confused— who stumbled off a Somerville curb one January dusk and became a sickening thump, then a bleeding body cradled in the driver's arms until police and ambulance came. That old woman lived…
I am laying my hands on the sleeping child, on this thin flesh over the winged scapula, pressing—just so—as bread is pressed. For this is the bread that falls and rises and these are the shoulder blades that cut to the nervous bone of love. But I want to press harder, tougher like a wrestler…
Beautiful beautiful nowhere. Lightly canoeing. Day sultry. Me desultory. Toing and froing testing the bottom for bass, or in fact just yoyoing aimless assortments of ornament up and down. Very encouraging soundtrack, once you get into it. Whole Canadian laid-back percussion section. Woodpecker, marshhen, dittybug, loon, frog. Sidemen, all of them, happy to just hit-it-when-indicated….
I can't say, staring at the wall of odalisques with their pellucid breasts, plump bellies, whether I want to be one of them, dazed by the petulant heat of the Midi, a white towel barely covering my damp thighs, or the old painter himself, white hair waving across his sweaty brow as he mixes the…
Yellow fingers lift a match to Virginia's shreds and edges: Deeply I pull smoke in, and blood faints at the door. My young father coughs, gags, and wipes his lips with pale narrow fingers: When he looks at his shaking hands, splaying them out to gaze at them, I understand how much his nails please…
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Today my father crouches above the ice on Black Hill Lake and the bass, spinning in slivers of winter sunlight, swim to the surface with the aura of dreams, in their speckled eyes the slow, ominous stare of memory. Next to the crosshatched hole in the ice, the bucket fills with fish, the water turns…
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