Everyone around here is sluggish. The young woman who checks my purchases off the conveyor belt dabs her eyes and stifles a yawn. She keeps shaking herself awake as the … Continue reading
The monks of Europe often planted their vines in cemeteries to ward off thieves, and believed you could taste the blood of ghosts when you drank. My mother would sip her wine and look away dreamily and then back at me as if I had come home from a long journey, with the Mazda parked in her driveway.
There is no lasting happiness
in this world, only
particles of happiness,
transitory as a fragrance
or a falling leaf
Maybe it all started with the murder of John Lennon, or the books my mother bought me on JFK and MLK. Whatever the reason, by the time I was thirteen I was a hardened news junkie always looking for a fix.
An addict is an actor, able to look you in the eye, smile, and lie so convincingly that you begin to question yourself.
Nothing stirs but the wind that rattles rain gutters and pulls on the hinges of blistered shutters. A pair of boots has been left out on a patio of gray flagstones, the mud still clinging to their heels like forgotten promises.
Consider my mother gazing out her window
over the kitchen sink as she washes breakfast, lunch,
and dinner dishes for fifty-some years.
You see them there
their arms weary with
holding the guns
withholding their fire
You see them in the light
On this Thanksgiving, I survey all the deliciously delightful people who have touched my life and kudize them all. However, there are four in my personal pantheon that are absolute standouts. Oddly, they are all men.
All morning I groom you with tiny lovenames.
I am a cat, you are my kitten, cowlicked