If I am repaired, can we meet again for the first time, in all of the places I have feared to go, and then, again, in all of the places I will have forgotten, if I am repaired?



Saturday, July 30, 2016

Freewrite for Lack of Chops

The car is white. A four door. Nissan maybe. An older model. Dealer tags.
          The passenger, in his mid twenties has his arm cocked out the opened window. No air. He’s shirtless and tan, spotted with dark tattoos.
          The driver gets out. He comes round to the front of the car. He’s wearing shorts and a white A shirt.
           ‘You know the man who owns that place,’ he says, pointing to the white house across the field of tobacco.
          The house is a rental, owned by the same man, the same family, who owns the old house I’m working on. It had burned a while back. Not badly. Not that you could tell from the outside. An electrical fire in the attic. Still, it wasn’t inhabitable yet, and the owner wasn’t sure he wanted to fool with renting it out any more.
          ‘Same fella who owns this old place,’ I say.
          ‘You reckon he’d want to rent it out?’ the driver asks. He's coming my way.
          ‘Don’t know,’ I tell him.
         The passenger’s eyes roll over my tools, the old house. I hate this shit. Not knowing. Having to assume that people are thieves, when I’d prefer to think the best of them.       
          The driver is standing in front of me. If he isn’t high, he needs a fix. His eyes won’t be still. They quiver.
          ‘I’ve got five grandbabies,’ he says, ‘that’d just love that big yard.’
          ‘It burned inside,’ I tell him. 'Needs work.'
          'I'm a carpenter', he says. ‘Like you.’
          I look over the driver's shoulder at the passenger, smoking now, his skin slick with sweat.
          I hate this shit.


Tuesday, July 19, 2016


He leaves the stand, holding the sweet corn in his arms, eight, ten ears, as if he were already there, returned to that most precious feast of childhood.


Tuesday, July 5, 2016

So. This song comes on the radio...

And, I'm thinking, like you're probably thinking ... Slow Dance
And the partner that pops into my head at this moment of emotional raptitude?
Yeah. My dog.

Thus is the depth of my love.

p.s. no, raptitude is not a word.

Friday, June 17, 2016

Three Swell Books

Starting with Kate, because...

Well, just because. 

Image result for raymie nightingale

Image result for milkweed jerry spinelli

Image result for the one and only ivan

Saturday, June 4, 2016

Short on Slippers

She had thought her name would carry her. Up. Out. Something.
       Not that she hadn’t made an effort. She had. The cello, the toe shoes, the Bauhaus decor. She had submerged herself. 
       She couldn’t keep up though, keep focused, keep thin. Not Claire thin. Not Claire sharp. Not without help. 
She shared a room now with a girl named Dakota, in a house occupied by twenty women, all of which had to dump their purses and pee in a cup each time they came through the front door. A front door that was locked after ten thirty, so you’d better find a day job.
       It was after one. Dark, but not dark enough. 
       She couldn’t sleep. It was too loud, the house, the road outside, the hood. It buzzed. All of it.
       It was the hardest part of being clean, the noise.  
       Quiet. She wanted some quiet. Just for a few minutes.
       Dakota slept, her breathe raking soft against her palate. 
       She had once thought of it as ignorance, Dakota’s peace, her ability to sleep, to shut off. She longed for it now, admired it at times.  
       She sat up. She put on her slippers, dark leopard prints she’d found at Goodwill. Very Dakota.  
       The window would let her out. Down. Something.
       Two blocks from the house she found a stop sign, planted in a small triangle of grass.
      She felt a curious connection to the sign. The cars, the power lines, the fluorescents, all of it, ignoring its plea.
       Can’t you see? Be quiet!
       She took hold of the signpost.
       Stop! Stop! Stop! She shook the post and shook the post and shook.
She wasn’t there for breakfast, Claire. 
       The women hoped quietly against the odds, said prayers.
       Dakota found the slippers, the dark leopard prints, on her way to work that morning, tucked up to the stop sign, as if it were a bedside.
       She left them be. It seemed so very, Claire. The corner, the sign, the slippers. All of it. 
       So very Claire.


Wednesday, June 1, 2016

Short While Stopped

They put Charlie Paxton away today. In Daubers, the Psychiatric Facility. 
       Charlie used to work heavy machinery. They’ve been widening New Shackle Road for a while now. He was on board that project, operating a Komatsu excavator. 
       Charlie was backfilling a sewer box a couple weeks ago, about noon. There was this cop there. You know how it is. There’s always got to be a couple cops standing around construction zones, wearing yellow vests, doing nothing. I guess this cop had a thing for standing next to Charlie’s excavator.
        “You ever have a fly buzzing around the room while you’re trying to read,” Charlie told the Judge.
       The cop was checking texts when Charlie swung the Komastu’s bucket around and clipped him at the base of his skull. Of course it killed him instantly, but the force threw him out into the street where he was run over three times before traffic could get stopped.
        “Same thing,” Charlie told the Judge.


Sunday, May 8, 2016

As For Saturday (The Enigmatic Summation)

As it turns out, I didn't do anything particularly stupid.
Though I didn't do anything particularly smart either.
I sort of ... dithered ... somewhere in between. A full grown chicken.
A smitten chicken.