Category Archives: Prose

Working Class Super Hero

(Excerpt from Raking the Dust) Monday morning.  I sat in my yard, drank coffee and flipped through the newspaper, eventually making my way to the section I had been avoiding: the classifieds. With perfunctory listlessness I circled the jobs that … Continue reading

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Proxy Among the Spiders

Review of Jean Fremon’s Now, Now, Louison, a “life imagined” of the artist and sculptor, Louise Bourgeois. There once was a little girl named Louise. Sweet, endangered, watchful and tragic, this little girl, who in her permeable nomenclature was also … Continue reading

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The Passion of Joan

Enlightened, perhaps. God-engorged hormones, maybe. Regardless of why, Joan, you were the rebel prototype long before James Dean zipped up a red jacket, or Marlon Brando mumbled and curled his upper lip into a totem, before Louise Brooks and Josephine … Continue reading

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George

Monday, April 1st Went bowling with George last night. He refused to pick up the ball, just stood there, frozen, blank, his hands rsing toward his ears in a lullaby clasp as if he was planning on taking a nap. … Continue reading

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(Sub)Missive

The lore of missive keeps writers minds on their hearts as they freehand scratches into the purling skin of history’s feted edges.

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The Natashas

Review of Yelena Moskovich’s debut novel The Natashas. “You enter a dark, deserted warehouse on the waterfront. One that smells of cats and kerosene, and whose walls are covered with dusty calendars from bygone eras. Or perhaps you find yourself … Continue reading

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Candles for Henry Miller

Happy birthday, Henry Miller! “One’s destination is never a place but rather a new way of looking at things.”–H. Miller Some men rattle their chains and wonder, some sing them. Then there are others who spraypaint their chains rainbow siege … Continue reading

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Nocturne’s Launch

So grateful for the gathering of people who became a part of the magical and inspired launch of Nocturne Variations, and in the gracelighted eternal words of the Little Prince: “What is essential is invisible to the eye, it is … Continue reading

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Boy and Girl

   I remember the time, Anya, when my mother asked about you and me. I was thirteen. My mother’s sickness was in its early stages. She had already turned the couch in the living-room into her sickbed. She hated lying … Continue reading

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Timeshare

It is scary once you realize that the past can be changed, and that the future is fixed, a rigged absolute. Knowing that changes everything. And what about the present? For some the present is intolerable cruelty, unimpeachable company. For … Continue reading

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