Thursday, July 30, 2009

one word mirada: tiled

santiago's mess
brilliant anarchy
coral reef confreres
the aftertaste of fate
byzantine firebush
calming storms of fury
dawn's mosaic
in Maria's wake


gabriel must be blowin' today

I heard this on KRTU, while driving around town this afternoon:


one word vertigo: tiled

we left there
as soon as we could
the pages turned
the windows shattered
eyes stolen
down the ladder we
climbed, seemingly
fertile crescent
never missed.


monk lives (mccoy, too)


con toda caricia...

Roy's smooth funk:

Marsalis Family layin' it:

Flora's still here, still Flora:

And Lhasa, well, good heavens (for Devil Mood, who introduced me to the deva/diva):


one word rio frio: shallow

in the great deeps
you'll find

little beyond

what you can find

right here

in the sun on your

son's lovely back

the rise of your wife's

anthem, as she gathers

wisdom to her breast,

cherishing the rest...


Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Sunday #173: Where in the World


Mississippi’s Pearl River, so named by French explorers in typical disregard of its already given Choctaw Indian name of Nanawaya, is a 487 mile long river that has its beginnings in a lush green portion of east central Mississippi. Sieur de Bienville can perhaps be forgiven his lustrous appellation for this lovely river. It was apparently from her mouth at the Gulf of Mexico that he plucked oysters that bequeathed food for his men and jewels for his beloved’s ears and throat.

The river’s initial course is to the southwest, before turning at Jackson upon a south to southeasterly course that will take it all the way down to Bienville’s oyster bed. Not, however, without first pouring her lurid jade green waters into a 50 square mile tub of grey bath water known as the Ross Barnett Reservoir. She staggers out of her grey sleep through a spillway that magically stains her waters green once again, limps down the eastern edge of a city that has punished her for her presumptive flood waters of years past, finally regaining some vitality as she wanders free of municipal bondage, then boldly intruding for a stretch as state boundary to the Papist insinuations of Louisiana’s St. Tammany Parish.

This commemorative desecration of a bejeweled river honors a governor whose habit it was to stand in the way of all possible healing between the races of his constituent state. Stood, he did, in the way of one James Howard Meredith, a man of both African and Choctaw lineage attempting, in 1963, under the chaperone of several hundred federal troops, to integrate the University of Mississippi, a bastion of latter day confederates with several infantry brigades’ worth of beauty pageant-winning coeds, the maintenance of whose sexual purity was no doubt felt to be endangered by the ravenous presence of a solitary diminutive black scholar. Governor Barnett did not win his battle of the doorjambs at Ole Miss, but his habit of obstruction appeared headed for the ultimate victory of eternal life in the guise of his tepid namesake, ironically inserting itself into the forward progress of a river given its original name by the progenitors of the governor’s old adversary in the sacred halls of undefiled higher education.

Until, however, the summer of 2000, when, with a sense of millennial drama, the gray eminence (reservoir, not governor; no one has yet tracked the possible correlations of decline between that one aging body politic and his memorial body of water) began to recede, not by mere inches, but plunges of feet. Of a mind, it would seem, if mind can be so attributed, to abandon all semblance of political mimicry and return to life a reborn, reincarnated, unreconstructed river of dreams.

Thus were the passions engaged of a vagabond tribe of amateur archaeologists and geologists that counted Evers Jameson, the self-named Lord Spudlee Spoo, and the silently attentive Avery Redding in its numbers. Evers had been there from the beginning, as Nature in league with chastising drought (and in unholy alliance with the ACLU and NAACP, whispered the more deranged of the governor’s old cronies), slowly revealed a wonderland of underwater forests (those clearcut and those entirely unmolested), asphalt roads, entire neighborhoods’ worth of shotgun houses deemed unworthy of relocation by the Corps of Engineers, playgrounds, service stations, ice houses, schools, schoolyards, barns, farmhouses, swimming pools, and a cavernous landfill that the lead amateurs had christened Paradise. In the unlikeliest of locations, Titanic was raising herself. Evers, as scout for the notoriously reclusive Spudlee, had chronicled two thick journals’ worth of observations, statistics, sketches, newspaper clippings, and photographs taken with his mother’s commandeered old Leica. But, he was tired of the hermetic turn his life had taken as minion for Spoo, a sweethearted lad beneath his aristocratically swollen pigeon’s breast: hence, his insistence—an insistence that surprised both himself and his lordship—that Lord Spoo cast monasticism aside and venture forth before all the good stuff was taken. Not surprised by the newly brazen manners of Evers Jameson was young Avery Redding, beneath whose appearance of quiet reproof lurked, as one might guess, first love of a lass for something other than doll or pony.


one word quark: drive

this bend curves through

green waves

the mind's own

wave, as if

feynman had

nothing better to

do than invent

the rest of your life

in one quick flurry.


Saturday, July 25, 2009

rain prayer for tres leches

Only we'll settle for longer than a minute, 49 seconds. That's for sure...


one word pynchon: gravity

rainbow children all amiss
lost in the trees
the rivers abdundant
the rough gods and their
amber trysts.
look beyond where
you are carried:
look down the dawns
of inventory,
the meek vistas
of the agile myths.


one word seminary: pause

this moment of vespers

called in the rudiments of

love's time, called

out from the suburbs

of time immemorial

prayer most sublime

desire most crimson

april most rare


Friday, July 24, 2009

from the archives

[“Thus Peter was identified with Janus, god of gateways, and came to be called the Janitor…” — Barbara G. Walker, The Women’s Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets]

[“She took my house / took my Cadillac, too” — John Lee Hooker, “Stripped Me Naked”]

Mr. Bedrosian at the Temporary Employment Agency

miss thang, i cannot fill out your forms
righteous dame got one hell of an axe to grind
stripped me naked
she gotta whole lotta love to come after me like that
cockamamie stories even trying to take down brother jesse
that cold enough for you, now that is cold
dig me i’m the cowardly lion, i got hell to pay
but you don’t take jesse stuck up on his two by fours
that’s cold, talking ‘bout riffin’ off all the other big smokey joes
where the hell does she come off

she took me down but I still got the keys, oh i got the keys
that skill transferable enough for you, miss thang?
references? – miss righteous blew the whistle on the whole bunch of us
took my cross
took my prance on the water
took my whole damn custodial gig
me the January man i see you comin’ and goin’
took my Cadillac, too

my piety is a salty chair
it’s either this shirt or the other
this ain’t minimum wage, baby
this is dumpster at family dollar
i got more fertile topsoil than the blacklands east of 35
scrape if off, chica, i got plenty more

light industrial or what?
number of words per whose minute?
blue car, yellow rose, the number 529—
forget about it, i got short term memory
mortgaged up to the hilt i’m talking
light fantastic, not clerical, not voc rehab, not
surface design
i walk the aisles of san fernando holding the ass of my pants
up with one hand, now that’s fiber art

weren’t for the viejas hot for sunday mass
i’d clear the whole 92 downtown bus with the stench of me
when they first turned me on to san anto in portland
i checked into the san pedro springs
used to wander the college, rip off the bookstore
old bent paleta man tossed me his leftovers

i’m sure miss righteous got hip, tipped off the heat
bloody pharisees in sweaty black, i got no more time
for denials, spat once, what kind of stick was that he
jammed up my ear? I let the cock crow all he wants

i hear she lives in jersey
just once i’d like to throw on a
pair a slacks whose ass ain’t grimed
put on the other shirt
trim the beard, lose the shit under my fingernails
walk up all nice and pentecostal to her door
buddy pablo with the meter turned off
we show miss high and mighty a real good time
none of that trumpy mess, we’re talking
cape may, pastel, Atlantic salmon
some place harborside
bellies all fat, take her down
blow some Jamaican weed, she’s wiccan, she’ll go for that
i’d give her the keys, hand ‘em right over
what do i need with keys
just me and miss righteous
feel that wind blow
transfiguration’s got nothin’ on jersey sun goin’ down, wind up
great blue heron standing in the mist
i didn’t need jesse to prance on the water
i taught him, it’s in the blood
all of us little fish


Thursday, July 23, 2009

one word cannery: paws

cypress woods
Atchafalaya basin

your curdled eyes

risen flame

down this neck of the woods

peril flashed

missing was conjured

the rest of us were


in the guessing
of the game.


seaside prompt

This on the marquee at Pappadeaux's this morning, as I was driving down the highway: Shrimp Montage. Y'all players, consider that your prompt, while the Sunday girls are waking up.

reef massage

shrimp montage
cinematic calamari
jelly-faced little ottos squeezing
feisty displays
anglerfish catharsis, manta
raybans checking out the babes
actuarial sea-slickers
swimming in profit shares
even hanks could not
resist. williams charts
another blockbuster-
cuttlefish rhapsody, the ins
& outs of craven disguise
Shane was their mister
(Come back, Shane!)
scrambling down the western reefs
massaging the protean myths
digitized oblivion
carrion in the trenchant streets.


Old Man: el otro abuelo

Stick Years

This one I knew.

No: this one I watched,
And watching, disappeared,
Within the shadow of
Another. Summered
In your wake,
Felt the deep print of
Your disregard, the world

Your world &
No other, fashioned within
A private cacophony of
Cattle-driven rampage.
Upon these Teutonic
Zen monks, we
Throw ourselves: I,
Like pasta against a wall,
What will stick.
Years till the sculpture reveals
Itself, stripped of
Spawn of common dust.


one word mercenary: twine

  • unbend your mind
    unwind the times
    of disavowal
    the nouns of protection
    blue in green
    the climb to the mighty
    tops, shriveled
    by argument
    dallied by crescent

  • gurgling undertow
    the mind swivels
    missing the point
    missing the misery
    the crust of time
    the passion that withers
    vigorously on display
    capturing the fallen

  • Labels:

    Wednesday, July 22, 2009

    A Confession

    As I noted, today's earlier post was inspired in part by reading the opening chapter of Tom Wolfe's The Right Stuff. There was, in fact, another source of inspiration, albeit perhaps an odd one.

    This past Friday, I had the great pleasure of listening to Ellen Bass read poetry at Gemini Ink, a literary arts center here in TL. I have known of Ellen for some 20-odd years, as she was the co-author of the seminal The Courage to Heal, the guidebook and Bible for countless thousands of survivors of sexual abuse; a few dozen of those survivors were clients of mine. I'd known that Ellen was also a poet, but I had never read her work. After hearing her Friday, I am reading it now, and I have more of it on order from the biblioteca. There is a simplicity and a straightforwardness (two poetic elements I am not well known for in my own work) that I am drawn to, and yet each poem I have read of hers also offers at least one moment when the words transfigure, and we're taken out of the unfolding narrative into something that transcends. It may be an image, it may simply be a metaphor that races past - nevertheless, these transfigurations feel like blessings every time they surface and hit. So, as I read her poems, I found myself, at least for the moment, wanting to write a poem in a similar way: to tell a story simply, and then let the narrative naturally draw me up and out. With the story of my grandfather pulled into place by Wolfe's book, it was time to give it a go.

    Below are two of Ellen's poems from her book Our Stunning Harvest:

    Then call it swimming
    (for Susan Lysik)

    you are concerned. your writings
    are not poems - there are no line breaks
    sentences wind like coils of a pot

    they are not stories - no beginning
    middle, end, characters
    are not developed
    the action is a child
    in green chiffon

    you apologize: I
    don't know what to call it
    you want a name

    then call it swimming. the water passes over you
    the smoothness
    the liquid
    the smoothness more enveloping than making love
    your arm, arching in the sun
    in drops, crystals, falling

    or call it walking, the air
    cold in your nostrils
    the ground soft with rotting leaves
    the green is too bright

    some are mushrooms, some maize
    some take long as persimmon to fruit
    some leave early
    they are the black pearl droppings of deer
    some are overgrown pups
    they hang on your tit, you cannot
    shake them off

    call it
    coming home, returning
    by a different route

    call it a sandwich in waxed paper
    we will give it to our children

    call it an antidote
    to what we have been taught

    call it rubble, what remains
    through pyres, altars, ovens, electricity

    call it what comes in place of sleep
    what we ask to know

    a tribute to redwood pods, they
    burst within fire, seeding
    young groves


    Her grandfather wants to baptize her,
    to sprinkle her head with water
    in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.
    He is an old man. He
    may die.

    Her father wants to compromise, to say
    Father, Son, Holy Ghost, and
    All That Is Divine. It is
    his father.

    I am the mother.
    I know too much of
    fathers, sons, and the ghostly things they have done
    in the name of the holy.

    I want the water on her head
    to be rain. I want her watered as our
    earth is watered, to live
    in the light of the moon:
    the crescent, the full, the waning
    cycles that pull tides, that pull sea creatures so deep
    that sight is only a myth, cycles that pull
    bean sprouts through loose soil,
    sap up trees, and plush blood from her womb
    many moons from now.

    I have no need for the supernatural.
    Her breath is the miracle. She
    is divine.

    He wants her blessed in His name.
    I want her blessed in her own.


    For my grandfather...

    (I was reading Tom Wolfe's The Right Stuff this morning. He opens through Jane Conrad's eyes; Jane was wife of astronaut Pete Conrad; she was a good friend of my mother's at St. Mary's Hall, here in Tres Leches. The stunning pall of death upon death among the flight testing pilots brought my paternal grandfather to mind, a man for whom Pat Booker Road, the highway into Randolph Air Force Base here in Tres Leches, is named. I labored for many years under a grandmother-induced fiction of why the road was named after him, and then was brought up short some few years ago by the real story. In the intervening years, Heroism took a dive: this seemed more a story of good ole boys and dreaming. After reading of Janey's ordeal and the long reign of the Friend of Widows & Orphans, I came back around.)

    Tale Enough

    The stories told of you were mythic:
    Flight training,
    Downed through the trees,
    Thrown free,
    You managed to save your crew
    Of seven.
    Two weeks later,
    You died of burns sustained
    In the heroics.

    The official story was more
    No crew,
    No freedom,
    No saving, just
    You & death
    The very next day.
    Your seventh crash
    Was fatal, your
    Luck run out: for this,
    Your (and mine & my father's) road,
    Wide asphalt memorial
    Into your old buddy Randolph's
    (Or was that mythmaking, too?)

    Bulky, burly
    Spencer Tracy looks
    In the pictures,
    You with the football
    & basketball
    & boxing teams
    You coached, Borgesian
    Beasts lined up
    For the cameras,
    From times of desperation
    We no longer fear.
    Fat buddy-boy cigar
    (Or am I also dreaming?)
    In hand, you
    Might as well have been
    Or Barnum in
    Your Big Show.

    Why the need for
    Stories beyond
    This? 6
    Resurrections not Tale
    Enough? And where
    The seeds? Borrowing,
    I see the divebombing to
    Wake your sons,
    Fog-flying, trucks
    In flight
    Above you, as you
    Navigate the bridge's

    We all must add,
    It seems: some simply
    Add better,
    More pointedly, more
    Enthusiastically, than
    The rest.

    Where did I
    Hallucinate your fear,
    The emptiness of that
    Cigar chomp,
    The knowledge that there
    Are unlucky 7s beyond
    The 6?

    Next time I visit
    The white teeth &
    The wide meadow,
    I'll remember the heroism
    The myth.


    Tuesday, July 21, 2009

    one word firespike: growing

    passel of growth
    in the winsome tides

    sinners begetting

    new growth

    new vibe

    in the end we


    next to

    nothing, in the derivations

    of our peace.


    Monday, July 20, 2009

    one word discography: angels

    nyro's head was tilted
    in the gathering suns.
    she made her way through
    gossamer, she sang
    from a heart
    blackened by loss, yet
    radiant in its disarray.
    Desiree was calling
    fealty was her bliss.


    okay, just follow along here...

    Listen for the panther screams (no, not Luciano):


    Sunday, July 19, 2009

    one word entropy: coin

    gaggle of busters,
    infantry on the move,

    piercing the distal,

    accelerating the forgotten.

    why crawl for the invisible

    dream that wavers?

    this was the very last

    and you were beyond even that.


    one word lapsang souchong: dispute

    goofball lizards
    tree in bloom

    nature calls

    upon her loom

    after you've answered

    the call of the wild

    tea time soothes -

    it's glorious time -

    carry it with you

    the emerald rhyme


    Saturday, July 18, 2009

    cedric, on your feet and earn your salary...

    Can't get enuff Fats.

    I've looked long and hard for Fats' "Christopher Columbus." I found a cover by a pretender (not bad on the keys, but the Fats' song mimicry was painful). You'll find Fats heself on Paschal's Playlist in the blogroll (Song #148). Sidney Bechet's "Viper Mad" right after is a revelation (ahem), too.


    one word social work: welcoming

    victims of vice
    leaning into the measuring fields

    mislaid files

    engaging occupations

    round the corner

    and round the bend

    this was your last call

    till you called the pleasure

    of your plenty


    while we're on the subject...

    The Cinnamon Peeler
    -Michael Ondaatje

    If I were a cinnamon peeler
    I would ride your bed
    and leave the yellow bark dust
    on your pillow.

    Your breasts and shoulders would reek
    you could never walk through markets
    without the profession of my fingers
    floating over you. The blind would
    stumble certain of whom they approached
    though you might bathe
    under rain gutters, monsoon.

    Here on the upper thigh
    at this smooth pasture
    neighbor to your hair
    or the crease
    that cuts your back. This ankle.
    You will be known among strangers
    as the cinnamon peeler's wife.

    I could hardly glance at you
    before marriage
    never touch you
    - your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
    I buried my hands
    in saffron, disguised them
    over smoking tar,
    helped the honey gatherers...

    When we swam once
    I touched you in water
    and our bodies remained free,
    you could hold me and be blind of smell.
    You climbed the bank and said

    this is how you touch other women
    the grasscutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.
    And you searched your arms
    for the missing perfume.

    and knew

    what good is it
    to be the lime burner's daughter
    left with no trace
    as if not spoken to in an act of love
    as if wounded without the pleasure of scar.

    You touched
    your belly to my hands
    in the dry air and said
    I am the cinnamon
    peeler's wife. Smell me.


    sunday scribbling: #172: ThE pLaN

    (You know the girl: another November one, come to think of it)

    Call Ghosts

    Plan your robocop ditties down

    the skinny dan, not steely but
    still worthy of the night's
    castoff diminuendo:
    we crashland into
    mutual pleasure
    dance a round
    of this major motion
    picture we call
    ghosts on the prairie
    if you ever wonder where
    they went, check your rule
    book, your menu,
    your Franklin planner
    we elude ourselves
    when we least expect
    the rondo
    I would simmer
    I would saute
    the rest
    the clouded dreams
    the cash money honeynest
    of your rounded haunch
    zisz plan enuff for you, darlins?
    get off the bus &
    drizzle down the feverish
    castaways, we be
    amoreena's fruit if
    we be anything:
    fate drives, but fate also
    plurals, & if that's
    in your Plan, sugars, then
    deal it all to me on the


    The November Girls + 1

    RLJ (11.8.54)

    That's the way it's gonna be, little darlin'
    You'll be ridin' on the horses, yeah
    Way up in the sky, little' darlin'
    And if you fall, I'll pick you up, pick you up

    BR (11.8.49)

    Baby you know we can choose, you know we ain't no amoeba

    JM (11.7.43)

    Whether you do or you do not resign
    Whether you travel the breadth of extremities
    Or stick to some straighter line

    But it ain't all about las chicas:

    NY (11.12.45)

    You see your baby loves to dance...


    Friday, July 17, 2009

    one word vineland: welcoming

    new world coming

    orange lederhosen

    velvet tangerines

    take a handful

    smell the inner life

    let it whet

    all your appetites

    all of them bon

    all of them merry


    Thursday, July 16, 2009

    one word sutra: palm

    this hand:
    hold your dreams

    pass them along

    in the gathering breeze

    cherish those

    in dustbins

    gather them

    in the waiting hearts


    Wednesday, July 15, 2009

    one word whole foods market: coral


    even the ingrates

    will find

    their way home.

    in this peace,

    we are left


    of all that we


    even the very last breath,

    the very -


    Tuesday, July 14, 2009

    one word dromedary: spray

    mercenary liverpool,
    spray-painted alleyways:

    the alleviation of

    times immemorial.

    shade the eyes,

    liven the limbs;

    april is ever looming

    in the fields of



    Monday, July 13, 2009

    one word shogun: lazy

    i can't go there,
    you shouldn't,

    we needn't even try.

    matthew will grouse
    as he lingers
    in the aisles,

    but trust me
    this one
    too near the beast;

    try him at

    a later time.


    one word creamery: heartbeat

    poster child of
    vivienne's seed:

    the one you passed by,

    the one before the orange flame,

    the one whose terror
    was ribbed in blindness:
    that thunk

    was plenty.


    Sunday Scribbling #171: Indulgence

    (A self-indulgence: This morning at the 10:30 service, six members of the Episcopal Church of Reconciliation here in Tres Leches were invited to tell stories of reconciliation in our lives. This was the one I read.)

    The Art of Reconciliation

    I did not know my father beyond the age of 5, exiled after a messy divorce. It’s foolishness to think that children forget banished parents: they live on in our imaginations, in the looks we give strangers, wondering just maybe. After a brief self-initiated meeting with him again when I was 21, I thought to myself, you’re the father here, you make the call next time. He never did.

    You still don’t stop aching for lost fathers, though. At the age of forty-one, I wrote a novel entitled Scarred Angels. It was a scandalous literary potboiler, but it was also, in its way, an imagined life of my father. After I finished the novel, I found that I no longer ached for him: in my way, I had found him, and set him free. And he me.

    Art—writing—reconciled me to my father, let him live more fully in my heart. Becoming a father has done the same. What I give to my son Walden are the so many things never given to me, and yet in that beautiful crossroads of Walden and me, the spirit of my father also gives and receives.

    Here is a poem I wrote, that my father also inhabits:

    [stray door]

    How many fathers do you father
    at 14 on a Detroit horse track,
    lost in the downtown rivers,
    the look he throws you across
    the ground at play, seventeen winters
    or past the time of worry,
    a time of sensible wear.

    Go to the saint anthony hotel,
    walk the gloom of travis park,
    invent a snow day in march,
    all your hearts melting in
    blue noon, orange flame—
    playland in feral bloom
    calliope seated in her white chapel
    her marble knees.

    Picture instead grey corridor,
    cedar mounting, his eyes stray
    door to door, the gloom of west
    commerce infecting, dreaming his
    dreams for him, beyond the greengrey
    hills, beyond all west texas
    onto the sands of india’s
    gandhi salt, not his taking—

    Death by drowning, she says:
    he lay in wait, an act of mercy,
    stone cold on the floor,
    flurry of grease in the air—
    no more waiting—
    in a field of white teeth,
    no songs, but a different chatter,
    ankle deep.


    Sunday, July 12, 2009

    one word rodeo: heartbeat

    kubla khan,
    liz k-ross;

    we all been travelin',

    no matter the cost.

    this way whines,

    that way

    you overobsess:

    (almost inaccessible


    you do the rest.


    Saturday, July 11, 2009

    one word xm radio: alert

    chamomile tents,
    astral projection:
    is it any wonder
    you quest for the next
    rendering of hazy
    why tarry in
    the last row when
    the seeming is now?


    one word joel grey cabaret: alert

    standing in the shadows
    heartbreak rumbling
    diana in her wiggy gloom
    spells your doom
    shuffles your fate
    meets you at the gate for
    dinner at 9;
    you wonder if
    you've been this way before
    wonder if michael in
    his aviary softshoe
    felt the rumble
    overcompensation for causality
    exercises in nominal bliss
    calculating the y-intercept of
    sensual inebriation &
    the gathering abyss.


    Friday, July 10, 2009

    one word cabaret: alert

    Casper the friendly

    his fees were friendly, but

    his groom was waiting -

    grooming freely,

    grooming in bliss,

    grooming beyond the mighty,

    the able,

    the kiss.


    Thursday, July 09, 2009

    one word chuck: berry

    I must confect:
    the blood was real,

    the berry lines were

    calling & time

    was all a-dither,

    whether here or there,

    whether the sins were calling me

    or I them:

    which would you choose, if

    the answers were in the sharing?


    one word reruns: vows

    Following Dee, as follow we must:

    downy empress,
    she will go far:
    not in your kia -
    well, there you are.
    it doesn't help
    that jello smacks of
    incense &
    perfume smacks of
    the rest is in the bin
    & for you there's
    less to force.


    The perils of surfing...

    You run across things like this:

    Life without earrings is empty!

    From Liz Taylor's Twitter account (DameElizabeth).


    olson, v

    "A big lagoon of a man. I swam. I swam very deep."


    Wednesday, July 08, 2009

    one word radio: vows

    reedy they were,
    we imped in orange and blue:


    shivering, more like
    if you go down the dog's way
    dogs will find you
    this would not be the last

    time, but you

    just might be the first -


    olson, iv

    “The crack finds you, you do not find it. I did not find this city—it found me. I, for one, was seated upon a rock, beside a mountain lake. Snow was falling. I was newly dead.”

    “Hardly new,” he says, glad to find some ground.

    She pauses.

    “Newly dead. I saw a hand in the snow. Arthur’s hand. Warm, around it the snow was melting. I went into the forest looking for the rest. It was just that: a crack. Here. I stepped through right here.”

    They were seated in the alley behind the theater. Wild-limbed wisteria bloomed in an arbor above them. Anarchy of hibiscus, cosmos, avocado, fig, lime. Down the alley, Van, a moon man tending bees.

    “The hand is still warm. Five years.”


    Tuesday, July 07, 2009

    one word cinema: spun

    after the top
    was round

    your head

    you pondered

    this and that

    it wasn't invisible

    it stamped

    your head

    with a blistering

    merengue &

    then you wasn't


    after all the all,

    it wasn't

    even there.


    one word: yarn

    this was the one:
    in suits

    we gambled

    lives of worthless endeavor

    roger to rome

    i stood still

    stefan - why stefan? -

    to milan

    all in suits

    it was that one

    and we were pegged

    but never left