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?



Wednesday, October 31, 2012


“Great costume!” I say to the bumblebee who parks beside me in the meat isle, where I'm browsing the questionably organic chicken (it is Wal-Mart after all), her antennae—actual wire thin braids of hair and not just any old off-the-rack headband—bobbing like some kind of lure.

“Great costume!” I say again to the Mad Hatter—Johnny Depp and Tim Burton’s version, marvelously reproduced by a woman not much taller than her top hat, who looks as if she has never questioned anything that said, “Eat me”—over in the Candy and Snack aisle, where, for marketing reasons I have yet to decipher, the raisins have been moved.

“Great Costume!” I say yet again to The Queen of Hearts, a tall and thick woman, who I’m guessing has a CDL, and only now it occurs to me, might have a thing going with the Mad Hatter.

“Great Costume!” I wanted to say to the homely Mennonite chick in her grey bonnet, blue skirt and course black shoes. But of course... I didn’t have the balls.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Dixie and the Giant Virus

Dixie is sitting a rabbit.
          And a virus.
                A giant virus.

     The rabbit stays in a little blue-roofed hutch beside Dixie’s big new tool shed. His name is Houdini. The virus has taken up residence in Dixie's tiny stomach, where there's hardly room for a standard-size guest, let alone a giant one. Dixie doesn’t know the virus's name. She doesn't know for certain if it’s a boy or if it's a girl. But, judging from its immensity, Dixie guesses that it’s a boy. Probably a boy named Bart.

     Houdini is a kind rabbit. He sleeps a lot and eats lettuce and carrots, but mostly carrots and sometimes little green pellets that smell like old cut grass. The virus sleeps a lot too, but it is far less kind and eats nothing but Melba toast, (which tastes a lot like old cut grass), and very little of that.

     Houdini belongs to Dixie’s dear friend Donna, who is in the midst of an extended move. Over the days, Dixie has grown quite attached to her dear friend's rabbit, with his pink and twinkling nose, and she tries very, very hard not to think of the day she’ll have to send him back home. The virus, on the other hand, Dixie acquired from her other dear friend, Jen. And although Dixie loves her two dear friends exactly the same… Jen, Dixie says, can come get her giant virus.

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

George's Big Night

(click photos to enlarge and to do a 'flipbook' time-lapse)

Friday, October 12, 2012



We. Are. Doomed. Ya'll.

Mag 138: 'From Mother's Clutch'

From mother’s old black clutch,
I draw out a Popsicle stick,
her wary eyes
forming a link between my brazen lips
and its discolored hilt,
while around my neck
the stethoscope she forgo
to have my careful hands
depress her tongue.

‘Say, Ah.’

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

On The Not-So-Very-Mysterious George and the Slightly-More-Mysterious Eve

George, my Night-Blooming Cereus, a plant renown for its remarkable flowers that blossom only once a year, opening in the dead of night and wilting just before sunrise, is now on his not-so-mysterious, borderline ho-hum, third round of blooms for the season. 
     And then there’s Eve, who, this morning, despite her lack of crown and all around iffy roosterness, I am quite certain was attempting to crow. 

     This place is just... strange.

     I swear though, if that chicken winds up both laying eggs and crowing, we’ll be live and prime time, quicker than you can say pageant daddy. 


Wednesday, October 3, 2012

The Undecided, Unproductive Eve...

Mag 137

It Must Be Time For Lunch Now, 1979, by Francesca Woodman 

'Late Breakfast'

Her soul, too big for her body,
had bruised her with broken hearts and crescent moons
that in the light of a late breakfast she explained
as they measured fingers again
to seal the certainty of the whole deal.


Tuesday, October 2, 2012