“There is no evidence of ecstasy in this blood.” Eric said. As usual Eric was saying words that meant about ziltch. Eric is my friend but Eric is not very accurate when he speaks. Eric speaks for effect, not for saying anything you can put in your freezer. The bear was still out there. It … Continue reading Hunting Bear with Eric
“I never mattered much to you, did I?” She walked into the water. What mattered was not my saying, but her. She is water, awash in the fantasy that a speaking matters, that my saying matters or that any saying of things matters. How tell the sea of my heart? So, I didn’t say. Dolphins … Continue reading A Matter of Speaking
A sound sounds and, sounding, rises, rises sounding loud, loud as the beginning, a beginning that is but noise a noise named God. And God is the sound, a sound full of its rising, that sounds a sound that wants an articulate for the inarticulate rumble of a sounding, a sounding empty of sound but … Continue reading In the Begin. . . .
Frank Uppsershaw died last Sunday afternoon. He died utterly and absolutely during the fourth quarter of the Ravens-Seahawks game. Ravens were up by six points. They had the ball. There were two minutes and twenty-three seconds left to the game. Then Lamar tossed a short screen to Ingram, and it looked like Ingram fumbled. The … Continue reading How Deadly Can a Fact Be?
Walking is an antiquated mode of travel, to be sure. And homo sapiens seem to have left it in a lonely cloud of earth killing carbon. There are folks in my neighborhood who will drive the seven miles to the bar for a beer and a gossip with pals, but will not walk 100 yards … Continue reading A Sunday Walk comprised of Great Joy
The punch was pretty tart. It was also pretty punched. And Big Guy Jim was bent on punching a place nearby that decanter of joy, a place where he could slug that refined and rarified mash down as if it were pure mountain water. A place where he could begin working on a lonely eighty-six. … Continue reading Punch Drunk Lament
O the jaded pomp of Deseri and all her malevolent witchery— It’s just too bad And not too sad These are matched by her misery.
How can you hurry a poem? You can’t. The simmering stew on the fire satisfies sooner. Lovers under the slow moon come faster. The seed of a soul, nine months making, makes quicker. Opening the door on a poem begins with finding it first, only to learn the key has been lost ‘till it’s found … Continue reading One Way a Maker Makes
Noisy old carpenter’s hammer slam suddenly still— splinter in his thumb.
The shadow of my goat costume looked strange. It stretched across the street from the lights from the parking lot behind me. I looked across it to see if it was clear. I didn’t see anything. I crossed the street and went into Sallinly’s yard. Then across it in the shadows to Scully's. Their lights … Continue reading Seeing her Safely Home, Part II