In honor of Charles Bukowski on his death-date, March 10th. Bluebird in his heart, caught in the cross-hairs of vice– Fuck pretty, sing life. Advertisements
Radio interview on Cultural Energy, revolving around Nocturne Variations, the writing life, youth, Taos, Brooklyn, and other assorted ramblings. (Show is listed as a link under December programs).
She wrote as if webbed viscous bits of her soul got stuck to the words and so you got to feel the raw organic matter of her dreamlife and lush panting inner delicately charred the sort of hunger that cannot … Continue reading
I sometimes think of writing as the vocational practice of learning to translate, with accuracy of spirit, the parts of me, unrecognized, unseen, unsigned, that echo from an intimately faraway hollow of interior space.
I realized that there may never come a reckoning that equated to a clean or true do-over. And what was it I wanted to break from? Was it the past, was it a worn and outdated mode of self that … Continue reading
She was short, a spud of a woman, who in the summer looked like an overbaked potato. Her hair was a mushroom-cap, a helmet-poof petrified by copious amounts of Aqua Net hairspray. My grandmother was sweet, exceptionally sensitive, … Continue reading
