And when we’d finished our Hamm’s we threw the empties into the blaze and watched them turn red and later, melt.
Kyle, a born artist, made a sculpture of Jesus with molten glass that he’d shaped with a stick. When he cooled it in the water it hissed and made a small cloud of steam. … More Duluth
Lately something’s always waking me up. Tonight it’s the sound of my dog’s ears flip-flapping on the side of his head. You know that thing dogs do when they move their heads side to side really fast, like some South American percussion instrument? There’s moonlight pouring in through the open door in our bedroom and … More Insomniac
From my perch on the couch I scan the skies over Bimini. I barely touch my fingertips to the glass and there is Gunnbjørn Fjeld. I am amused. I am amused. I am amused. I press a button and I hear john Lennon singing Give Peace A Chance and then I see the … More Cell Phone Transphixion
Wearing tallis and teffilin near the front of the Shul, proctologist Steven Rice M.D. looked up once at the ark where the Torahs were kept and began the penitential prayer. “We have transgressed, we have acted perfidiously, we have robbed, we have slandered. We have acted perversely and wickedly, we have willfully sinned… The text … More The Penitent’s Note
I remember how much I pitied the tree with no name that grew on the side of the house we had just moved into. It was “on the bubble” as they say in Hollywood, more a large stick than a living thing. When we dug up the former owner’s gnarled rosebush, his pygmy … More The Tree With No Name
She wakes at 3:00 AM to a sliver of golden moon hanging low on the horizon and shining like a coin in the sun. She washes her face and stares at the mirror into her own eyes. She feels the floor with the soles of her feet and represses a laugh. This is life, this is breath, and … More She wonders if the dead can hear
Morning is a canvas, broad and tall. “Do with me as you will,” it says. So I take all the shades of anger, from rage to grousing, and set them aside —for later perhaps, but not for now. The three large tubes of regret and melancholy too, I hide them in a drawer. And over … More Morning is a Canvas
I feel you in my atoms deep inside the sparks. Down where the electricity moves in waves and arcs. I know you at my center at the essence of it all. Submerged inside my memory beyond my mind’s recall. Joined at the start of time wed at our nuclear joints unbroken as the sky above … More I feel you in my atoms.
It leads up past the sandy soil, out beyond the screeching murder of airborne crows, and through the first whispers of morning light. Finally, it runs lonely and sometimes broken-hearted, to the edge of what is like —but is not, ocean.
I employ the word ‘ocean’ only to allude to vastness, and to danger, and to something, which by its essential darkness covers and hides. The thing that it covers is love.
Now you might say, ‘Love isn’t hidden. It is known.’ I don’t believe it is known. Not like the Kung Pao, not like the alto sax, not like the languor.
We grasp for those things and then stuff them in our mouths. And soon afterwards, when they’ve performed their slight-magic upon us, they leave and we retreat. Or we drop from a great false sky… (I’m never sure which) back into a state of need. … More Slight-Magic