Tag Archives: Literary

Meaning of the Mob

The Meaning of the Mob.  I say, the Mob, meaning the Definitely Uncertain, Fixed—a liberal form of physics— or the clotted swarm wallforming brick by brick, a mosaic pattern.      Pick a number, any number, it’s a given. A given what, … Continue reading

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Torch Song

The aureate secrets of silence, stuff stars are made from, and us, cocooned in gauzy slumbers, wink and blink and nod till well-scored we become cinders in a torch song, long-since faded.

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Frame-Up

(Written in response to Josef Sudek’s “Winter at the Window of my Atelier”)  Winter frame-up of god’s run-on fingerprints, evidence of weary sorrow, mounting, unfinished.

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Sunday’s Children

(Written in response to Joe Sorren’s “While the Trucks on the Highway all Howl”) While the trucks on the highway all howl, beneath a milk-bottle sky, Sunday’s children, curious and bulb-headed, lay vigorous claim to Paradise. Non-profit architects, they sit … Continue reading

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Hide and Seek

      Ready or not, here I come.    I can still hear my voice calling out, a bright echo in a jagged loop.    Hide and seek was a game we used to play all the time.    At … Continue reading

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Fugue

(Written in response to Josef Sudek’s “Sunday Afternoon on Kolin Island”) The camera’s lucid eye swaddles them in gauze, reverse cocoon effect and causal brakes of a fugue, fast-tracking lives to ashen blanks.

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Fiction in Taos

From the Taos Rag, July 2016    

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Wheelbarrow

(Written in response to Josef Sudek’s “Contrasts, St. Vitus Cathedral”). Considering the slopes of noble toil and grave matter, so much depends upon a soiled wheelbarrow.

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Review of Raking the Dust

A review of Raking the Dust for which I was most appreciative. “Gritty and serene, twisted and sweet, bizarre and weirdly relatable… this novel is magical surrealism and simple authenticity woven together in an improbably captivating tale. I was reminded of … Continue reading

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Mass

(Written in response to Josef Sudek’s “At Church.) jesus christ we applaud your shaded storehouse of yesterday’s cured pulp and no account sins, a meat pack industry at love’s labor’s cost; we, the proud brood of salt and bread, walk … Continue reading

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