in this room lit only by far off planets
bleak as a poorly attended meeting
now imagine a poem, and nurture it
while downstairs the vendors cry
downstairs the baby cries and
downstairs the mother cries too
flies sibilate happiness
or staticky radio messages
my body is out on the street
bright as light bulbs, falling
inwards, charred on a log fire
an eternal series, persistent
as the flash of television's reality
chronicling tiny, enduring details
food for the gods though not fit for them
speckled skies, four kinds of dogfights
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. _
Yesterday at lunch with the awesome Pied Piper and an accomplished, pioneering writer whose anonymity we shall preserve, Piper turned to me...
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...
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...