Stone, bald from piety,
Burns the soles of unshod feet.
Snaking through the lamp-lit alley,
Offerings and flowers arrive
Through the centuries
Ending here, this year
Small, tawdry, and plastic.
Little surprise then, that
Sweeping dead dust and dry leaves,
Into a prayerful mound, his spine
Curled and knobbed like a rosary,
He asks me in--reflex hush--
(While still in plain sight of the idol)
Is anyone else here?
James R. Kincaid, an English prof. at USC, has been writing in The Slate, and practically everywhere else, about how we are given to autom...
(Sorry to have been so solipsistic--although The Yunus Nobel and the Desai Booker provided the much-needed antidote to that : ) I have b...
Sunlight. arrogance sees, sleeps Now i understand: every thing you say. In the dark. heartbeat dee...
Friends and old neighbors shutting it down in honor of John Crawford. _
Today is the birthday of the best sister in the whole world (mine:)! Happy, Happy Birthday, Chelli! [AA, my favorite aunt in the whole wor...
Yesterday at lunch with the awesome Pied Piper and an accomplished, pioneering writer whose anonymity we shall preserve, Piper turned to me...
She knows that the child and his friend --another child-- read her words. She hides small messages of hope and love ...
Did the grown up thing and signed our wills today. Then I was in a bad mood for the rest of the day. All our year-long vacillations on the a...