As my wife snuck into our son’s room to swap his tooth for money, I imagined this scene playing out decades ago, Dad, tired from a long day’s work, keeping his fingers crossed that I stay asleep, Mom, tired too, tiptoeing to my bed that...
art is for the rich (the world has gone bananas) artists should be poor
At seventy-eight and eighty-one, Mom and Dad are still going strong. Halfway between twelve and thirteen, Chance, our Beagle, is still going strong. Civilization...
The first time I was called a poet, I took offense, for poetry is good for nothing: it neither makes love nor wages war, nor pays the bills.
To my tongue, honeysuckle tastes fibrous and bitter, like any common shrub or vine. I only know its sweetness indirectly: hummingbirds guzzling the nectar like a newborn her mother's milk while I sit in the shade and imagine a branch soaked in honey, my head forced back, sugar dripping down my throa
I dreamt I was a kelp forest swaying in pitch- -black waters. Above me moonlight fluttered like confetti and seagulls roosted on cliff-sides and buoys. An oil tanker drifted by, the workers
I’ve been staring at the wall for hours, wondering why the paint won’t peel off, what’s holding the plaster together.
My son and I spent weeks assembling a Lego car, 3,000 bricks of hard plastic intricately connected to form a whole.
The adults hurry to their cars as the bell rings, the crossing guard sips his water, takes off his vest: Today the children will read of warriors and kings...
When you have run out of courage; when every day is a loaded gun and your hand is not on the trigger; when you have given all you have to give and still disaster looms;
Like the pile of books on my nightstand, like the ever-falling leaves in the yard, my worries accumulate.
The moon, cold and pockmarked and hard, is not dainty. The moon belches starlight, has no gender.
