• me about the same time and place of the story

    Two Little Hands

    My life’s decades are the number of fingers on a well-formed human hand, not including the thumb. We could say the last five years1 have been the thumb, half-a-thumb, anyway. I pretty much finished off the first four fingers and skipped to the next hand to use the index finger then jumped back to the thumb on the first hand as though an afterthought. These last five years have been opposable. Does that work in this context? Opposable? Do I need to explain?2 The details of what make this so are… what they are and don’t matter other than they make up something that is opposable. One fifth of one…

  • Dr. Williams in 2020

    The Green T-Shirt I’d only worn once In what is now a profile Picture on all social media There it was Not all that important Where it had always been So beloved and simple Freshly laundered, folded And then before I wear again, Gone Like any favorite Anything I never knew I wanted

  • Trying too Hard

    Delicate work is brutal, a paradox eventually forgotten as the craftsman polishes his technique. As he polishes his technique he cultivates his patience. This is how he learns the effort of restraint, and learns again that particular effort is a supreme effort, a choice that always allows more choices in future but demands more refinement at present, toward making more of a universal statement in the universe. The grind is daily only in its season, and only after the chipping away hints a vague silhouette, the shape of the thing to come, but not anytime soon. Such a principle applies when creating any original work of art worthily rated as…

  • Garden Prayer

    mantis on our garden patio always praying thank you dear green one for your humble example

  • The Fog of Boredom

    Boredom is not necessary, neither is it illegal. Resorting to subjects, verbs and objects that are illegal often serves as boredom’s potent antidote. For a while, anyway. Until one becomes bored with whatever illegal activity, hormones will surge, chemicals will churn life into the dull grey soft matter that is the hardware of consciousness. We are children squishing ants on the front porch. Nothing wrong with that, even kind of addictive. And it never gets old until we do. Let’s turn things up a notch. That bird over there needs a rock thrown at it, we think, and throw one in its direction not intending to hit the target, which…

  • Ligatures

    These mops don’t smell too good no matter how many ways you soak Them, frayed and rattled like the ends of torn tendons, spliced especially So the silken ligatures slowly dissolve into flesh, absorbed like a child Takes everything as possible until proven otherwise, stories that evoke Senses of place in young imaginations are impatient seeds of epics, fully Flowered when the sun burns the cultivated ground, a harvest reconciled To our contentment, we can all agree on a balance, what should be is not What shouldn’t, and should objections open another cavity into our chest, Beasts will make this hole a home, leave bones of prey and lovers, drawings…

  • The Cleaning

    Work continues the same everywhere Beginning again in the early evenings Into the nights and mornings as quietly Changed into white clothes we wear Surface layers of dust that air brings Are wiped again until the cloth is slightly Shaded where fingertips polished the hue From flesh to cloth a mild vinegar scented Astringent of sorts, the final mortal flavor Held to thirsty lips, an ancient chiseled statue Cleanses daily filth from pure and repented Fixtures that furnish the house of our Savior