The Die, it is Cast...

It is finished. Done. Finito. Graduate applications for Fall '10 are assembled, paid for, and officially dispatched. Proust to that!

Schools I've applied to this year are, in no particular order, UT Austin, UNC Wilmington, UC Boulder, FSU, NYU, and UI Urbana-Champaign. Don't ask me why I chose these particular programs. Probably some combination of arbitrariness, unoriginality, and my general over-estimation of myself. Grad school is where would-be writers go to wile away the difficult years in which they are unlikely to be published. Kind of like why old people go to Florida, or why kids fresh out of college go to Europe; symptoms of a passivity that's thinly veiled. They allow us to feel like we are doing something, when all we're really doing is waiting.

This is not the first time I have applied to graduate school. After I graduated college I took a year off and went (guess where) before sending out my first round of apps in the Fall. I applied to UT Austin, UNCW, Brooklyn College, and Brown University, and got rejected by all four. I remember feeling pretty down about that. It was probably the realest taste of failure I'd had in a long, long time. That was before I got started submitting work though. Now it's not so much the taste that bothers me, but the ache my jaw gets from constantly chewing it.

Unilateral rejection last year has left me with few expectations this time around. I tried mixing it up a bit by choosing some schools that weren't ripped from a top ten list somewhere, but as you can see, I'm still aiming pretty high. Hopefully I will get in, but there is at least a fair chance that I won't. I feel like at this point I can say honestly though that that won't bother me. It has been humbling, this path I'm on, but I am truly glad that I did not go straight from college to grad school. I'm glad that in the span of a year I 've done everything from bartending to substitute teaching to selling cable door to door. Don't get me wrong, I can't say that I've found anything romantic about these enterprises, but they have succeeded in teaching me at least one important truth: that there are many ways to get where you are going, and when you love what you're doing and believe in yourself, one is as good as any other.

Crossing Over is Online

Hey folks... A short story I wrote, "Crossing Over", is up right now at Splash of Red, an online rag based in Asbury Park. Check it out, and while you're at it, try poking around a bit in the archives. Good stuff.

Burn Victim Online

Hey folks. Burn Victim is up now on Underground Voices, so show me some support (and also those kind enough to publish me) and go check it out!

Story: The Captain's Many Faces

They know him mostly as the ex-vet who can balance a beer on his belly, even as a belch rattles his gut; that old lion, still broad across the shoulders, whose post-treaty gut sags and causes his lycra t-shirt with the ‘C’ Company badge on the chest to fit just a little bit tighter, with slightly different proportion as of late. He wears Levi jeans and a pair of faded tan cowboy boots. In place of the military issue spectacles he wore during his service he now sports a narrow set of frames his ex-wife picked out, having said they made him look debonair. She hadn’t been fond of his lycra t-shirt, nor the rest of those he’d had his service badges pressed in to. He has worn his faded buzz cut proudly since the day he earned it back in June of ‘62.

But though he may be old and faded, he can still whip some ass when he needs to.

He sits by the door at night, nursing a forty-ounce bottle of High Life wrapped in brown paper, even though the bar staff would gladly provide him with the lager of his choice. He doesn’t require anybody’s patronage, least of all these kids’. He checks IDs as he is instructed to mostly, occasionally throwing out some asshole with a marshal twist of the arm and a well-placed shove that sends him ass-first onto the asphalt; a stern reminder not to fuck around when the Captain is on duty. But most of the time he just nurses his drink, responding to the young girls’ flirting with the paternal indulgence that is expected of him, catching them off guard every now and then with a licentious comment and an awkward pause before he smiles and shakes his head kindly. “Only kidding with you darling. Lemme know if any of these pricks give you a hard time.”

From his seat by the door the Captain often wonders at the children’s reckless exploits. Most of the clientele are in their twenties, though some, he knows, are also teens (he is not always as vigilant as he should be). He observes their escapades half with affection and half resentment, the skewed arc of their darts growing more amusing (and precarious) as their capacity for it diminishes, their shifting social scenes, their never-ending pursuit of the opposite sex, and hell, these days the sex doesn’t even have to be opposite! The times, they are a’ changing. He can remember when that was something everybody needed to hear. Some generations though, take it a little too far, he thinks.

None of these kids seem real somehow. He first remembers feeling that way on his return from the war, back in the year of our lord-1974, but the feeling has escalated since his wife’s late departure. She’d been that necessary link that grounded his world-weary seen-it-all-ness, so afterwards he found himself disconnected, utterly. Kids these days are so alien, he thinks, running around with their colorful cocktails, enjoying their freedom with scarcely a clue of its cost, as if it were something that just existed, like the air they breathe, and hadn’t at some point been wrested from faces just as young, just as human, half a world away. Some of those faces from his years in combat stick with him, interchanging themselves with those around him.

A flashlit signal from the bar suddenly catches his attention, and he places his wrapped can on a window ledge close by, watching the beam’s arch to see where it’s signaling. A crowd has gathered beneath the neon Killian’s sign, around one pair of boys who appear to be getting pretty hostile. He lifts himself from his stool and approaches tentatively. They are chest to chest, heads cocked menacingly toward one another while their mouths move silently, words lost upon the screech of the house music.

There’s no rush as he walks over, politely navigating the sea of bodies. He intends to break things up gently, interjecting himself between them and sending each in a different direction, because really nothing has happened yet. But just as he reaches them the first fist flies- a guy in jeans and a ragged blazer grazes the other on the back of the head, just behind his ear. The one who has just been struck looks wide-eyed for a moment, and begins to rush forward, not striking or anything but just barreling toward his opponent. Perhaps he’s just trying to appear proactive, or is so clouded by emotion that dumb aggression is the only thing he can manage.

It doesn’t matter.

With a trained professional’s expertise, the Captain catches the boy, and with a familiar twist of the wrist he lifts his shoulder and immobilizes him. But the other, probably thinking it one of his buddies stepped in to help, swings again, only misses his target this time and catches the Captain just under his eye, crushing the thin spectacles against his face.

For a second he is stunned, and his perception of the environment refigures. In an instant, everything is real. His mind retreats deep into his body now and he is all instinct; a life’s worth of cool, expert reflexes. As the boy lifts an arm toward him—probably in apology—he finds himself chopping it down with a force that sends the kid sideways, following with a right hook the catches him just beneath the jaw and sends him flailing against the bar, where the staff watches wide-eyed, unable to guess at what has happened. The boy on the bar reaches in the direction of a bottle, but before his fingers can close around it the Captain is wielding a garnish tray and bats him across the face with it, sending up a spray of limes olives and cherry juice. The kid collapses on the floor and he moves quickly, grasping him by the collar and belt of his pants and running him toward the exit, at last tossing the boy onto the sidewalk so hard he’s nearly decapitated by a car passing in the street.

As he turns back to the bar, the Captain says nothing. Everyone is watching, and besides the music, it is silent and still. “Anybody else have a problem?” he calls coolly, feet set widely apart. But there is no response. The bartenders too are silent, tin shakers paused and reflecting some brand of neon.

Without much idea of where he is going the Captain leaves, wandering off down the sidewalk and stepping over the boy (who, coincidentally, is still preoccupied with finding his feet). He wanders beneath the drooling orange light of sidewalk lamps and listens to the muted sound of bass drums pumping in different clubs downtown, and for a while it seems he might wander forever, alone. After a while though, it occurs to him that there is actually a place for him to go; that he has a house on a quiet street, with a dog even, that limps, and has lost much of his youthful spirit but is a fitter companion for it. There is a home for him, the Captain realizes, in this world he’s helped to create, and with neither relief nor enthusiasm, he goes there.

Story: Gorgon Waltz

Left, one two three, step, one two three, turn, one two three…

Hold on a second, says the younger sister, and each squeezes her eyes shut as they come to a stop—just a precaution, in case by some obscure miracle their timing isn’t synced quite correctly.
Ok what is it? asks the older sister, waiting to feel her sister behind her before she opens her eyes.

Half-turn on three, replies the younger sharply. One, two…

Wait! The older sister lifts her hands in the air, even though they are standing back to back. On three? Or one two three go?

One two three go, she answers, and holds her sister’s hand so that she doesn’t turn suddenly. Are you ready?

…

Alright. One, two, three… GO!

Each steps first with her left foot and makes an about-face, their spins timed perfectly so that their backs are always parallel. And facing the opposite direction, the older sister asks, What is it?

See the one right in front of you? the younger says, and the older looks down at a crouched statue: a man, frozen in an attempt to lift both his shield and sword simultaneously. His eyes are most definitely closed.

She looks, and it is as her sister says: his eyes are in fact squeezed tightly shut, which is significant because the question they have both infinitely considered, that which lies at the center of their existence alongside every vestige of hope, is whether it’s their gaze, or the fact of their gaze being received that turns the thing around them into stone. The latter theory might account for why natural objects such as grass, streams, trees, and sunsets seem to be unaffected by their looking at them—objects all more or less inanimate, and thus incapable of looking back. And oh, what a relief the sight of running water is! The burning glow of a sunset, in a world otherwise still and grey. By this latter theory, the two sisters should even technically be able to look upon each other, so long as one’s eyes are closed. Though neither has the metal to try, in case the former theory should prove correct. This statue with eyes closed also is not encouraging.

It doesn’t mean anything, the older assures her. She can feel her sister’s arms trembling. He could have closed his eyes the instant after we saw him: a miracle of timing. There now. Shh.

The sun sinks overhead, and the snow-capped peaks of the Pindus Mountains glow faintly orange in the twilight.

I know, I know, the younger sniffs, slowly pulling herself together. It’s not as if it matters anyway.

It does, the older insists, though again, she will not risk turning around.

There was a time when they were more bold; when the sisters numbered three, and during the day they would wander different parts of the garden, communing only at night when the darkness was thick enough to help keep them safe. When the two of them finally did find their other sister, their only way of knowing her was by her fearsome appearance, and how different she looked from every other statue in the valley. Her torso was drawn up in combat, her teeth bared and sharp, and from her head a din of serpents flailed. And though neither sister could have known of Perseus, or of the mirrored shield he’d been equipped with by Athena to help carry out the task, each guessed immediately the cause of their sister’s sudden stoicism: that she’d somehow caught sight of her own reflection (a fact which also supports the theory that their gaze must be returned in order for something to turn to stone, otherwise wouldn’t it have been Perseus who stood there frozen, mirrored shield and all?)

Though it filled them with grief, for days neither could tear her eyes away from their sister’s stolid effigy. It was the first they’d ever dared look upon her directly and, repulsive as the sight was, each discovered in the act of looking a certain tenderness, which managed to somehow make them feel closer to her than before. It made them wonder exactly which senses intimacy required? Which could be dispensed with?

The problem with either of their hypotheses of course is that they cannot be tested; the transformation to stone occurs faster than perception, and so it is impossible for them to ever know who looked at whom first, or whether their eyes ever did in fact meet. It is difficult even for them to know when someone has been turned to stone. More often than not, their only clue is a statue out of place, or one they do not recognize having suddenly appeared from nowhere.

So they hold one another behind their backs, maintaining constant contact, not longer allowing themselves to wander apart because it is clear to them now that the risk is too great. They each are the other’s sole company in this dreary existence; their one relief from a life of stone and stillness, and the only proof either has that consciousness is in fact fractured, and in fact meaningful. To dance is their lives’ one richness, their rebellion against the grey and the stillness. Back to back among the figures of their discontent they move, their timing trained, their steps practiced, living always in the knowledge that it would take only one false step to add a stone to their garden, and render their loneliness complete.

Left, one two three, step, one two three…

Perhaps to stumble is inevitable. They consider this possibility sometimes like an agnostic considers the afterlife; wondering first if it exists, and then what side of it she would find herself on. Whether it will be heaven or hell.

The moon rises. The stones shift from grey to anemic pale, and the sisters sleep also back to back.

Sister? the younger asks, feeling her warmth in the grass beneath her.

Yes?

She pauses before answering, feeling silly immediately, before she’s even spoken, though at last she comes out with it: What if a tree falls down, in the middle of the woods, and no one is there to hear. Do you think it makes a sound?

I don’t know, the older sighs, and again, several moments pass quietly before she adds in a whisper: I hope so.

An Itemized Update

It has been graciously brought to my attention by several of my most AVID readers that I haven't posted anything on here in quite some time. Apologies. Part of that can be explained by my absorption in other work, and part by my increasing awareness of copyright issues. As I continue to seek publication, it is important that I am able to grant accepting publications "first rights", and so it behooves me to refrain from posting anything here that I hope to one day publish elsewhere. Perhaps I'll let this be a dumping ground for those stories and poems that have been around the block a few times and now run out of change!

Anyway, without further adieu, here's a brief rundown of the things that have been going on with me literature-wise these past couple months:

-First of all, I have just had another piece of writing accepted for publication (in print this time) in a magazine called "Underground Voices." Burn Victim should be appearing there in December.

-Another piece of mine, Terms of Use, should be available online any day now. Just waiting for the good folks at Vivid Magazine to release their October issue. I will post a link as soon as they do.

-One project, that has sort of been put on the back-burner as of late, is a Zine that Shannon and I were collaborating on called "Smoke and Bowler Hats". It's mostly done now, and we're really just waiting for Shannon to catch enough of a breath from her new job (see below) to finish up the cover and final story. It will feature a number of my own stories along with illustrations and designs by her.

-Said job entails managing a new Austin business called Painting with a Twist, where you can sign up online to learn and create specific paintings all in one night. No experience is required and booze are encouraged. I have tried it myself and can vouch for the fact that it is extremely fun, and that, regardless of your experience level, you will walk away feeling amazed at what you can paint!

That's pretty much all I can think of now, but I do promise to be more attentive in the future. Thanks to those who have brought it up to me. Just to know that people are reading is itself a motivating force.

To those located in Austin...

Come check out this event on Thursday. Shannon is going to be painting along side a bunch of live muscians, and at the end of the night the painting will be auctioned off to the highest bidder, all proceeds going toward a good cause (i.e. Shannon's rent).

*Addendum- Check the photos.

The 'Art' in 'Artist'

Here are a couple of related articles that I think pair together in investigating the connection between an artist's character and his/her work. One is a pretty entertaining article about authors' drinking habits and what happens when they try to sober up, and the other is (ostensibly) about Budd Shulberg, the iconic screenwriter and director of "On the Waterfront" who died just last week, and who apparently named names for the House's Un-American Activities Committee back in the '60s.

Of course tales of authors' and artists' misconduct are legion, and while in some ways that imbues them with a certain enigmatic interest, it can also make us feel guilty sometimes for enjoying their work, particularly when the misconduct in question is ideological. We feel as if we are somehow being compromised, or that our unconsciousnesses are being influenced by sub-moral messages within the work. In the article on Budd Schulberg, the author (Randy Cohen) makes this good point:

"It’s hard to be a good person; it’s hard to produce great work. Most of us accomplish neither. To demand both might be asking more than human beings are capable of. To deprive oneself of great work created by a less-than-great person seems overly fastidious."

I believe I must agree. Check them out.

Suggested Reading

Here is an article by Tim Kreider posted on The New York Times' Happy Days blog. Though not exactly 'literary' in nature (unless by some over-stretched philosophical connection), I found it to be very good reading, and recommend that you check it out.

Literary Pranks and Padded Rooms: Literature Jests, but is Anybody Listening?

An article in the Chronicle (Washington's, not Austin's) takes a look back at a literary prank it took the Modernism/Modernity's (now questionable) readership five years to get. The prank in question was an article criticisizing David Foster Wallace, titled An Undeniably Controversial and Perhaps Even Repulsive Talent. Aside from the heresey of the sentiment (coded within an ironically Foster-esque title) the 'prankish' aspect of the article comes into play as early as the author's byline: Jay Murray Siskind, whom many will recognize as the quirky professor of Pop Culture in Don Delillo's epic White Noise. In the five years it's taken for the prank to be recognized, there have been many accounts of the article having actually been used as a secondary source for undergraduate and graduate research, which poses a number of fairly obvious problems with regards to contemporary scholarship (i.e. literary journals' ability to incorporate varied modes of writing, and whether or not they are being read to begin with) and collegiate students' frighteningly under-developed bullshit-o-meter. Do check out the article in full.

Fahrenheit 451, in the Age of Ebooks, May Have Been a Much Shorter Novel...

Sometime last week a number of Kindle users were surprised and a little vexed to find that several of their ebooks had been deleted from their devices, among them works by George Orwell (which I'm told is deeply ironic, although since I evidently missed that class in high school, I'm afraid I'm unable to confirm this). Amazon's explanation was that they had evidently been contracting a third party to upload books into ebook form, and this third party had managed to do so with a number of books without first obtaining copyright. Once the error was discovered, Amazon remotely deleted those books from the Kindles that had purchased them, and refunded those customers' money.

Now many people are up in arms though, and for good reason. The slippery issue of ownership had already been a topic of discussion and some debate with regards to the ebook, but now there is also a lot of talk going on about the future of book-baning. Across time and history, of course, the Press has been notoriously difficult to control due to how diverse and spread out it is. Imagine though, how different it might be if all it took to wipe a book off the face of the Earth was a corporate will, and a few complicated raps on the keyboard?

Amazon has already announced that in the future it will not 'recall' already-purchased materials, and so many people believe the current anxiety is both paranoid and ill-founded. Perhaps. Although I admit that I wouldn't mind hearing Amazon address some of these concerns directly. I haven't given up on ebooks yet as a worthwhile medium, but clearly there are still some valid issues that need to be addressed.

More Vampires...

There was a time, I think, when vampires' immortality was just a fictional convention-- an aspect of the vampire's figure, rather than its literary function. But as TV networks continue to churn out more and more vampire series', and as the commentary on this phenomena spirals ever-outward, I'm beginning to think there's something more to vampires'... persistence. Anne Rice's character, Louis, of the seminal Interview with the Vampire, now strikes me almost as a kind of meta-character-- a vampire-prophet: the way his presence transcends historical and cultural bounds, shifting in quality as the times themselves shift, while at the same time always reflecting some critical aspect of the society he preys upon. When we consider the ebb and flow of vampires in mass media, as well as how their presence there has developed, the similarity of these two visions are all but clear, and we begin to see just how undying they truly are.

This month's issue of Bookslut contains an article by Jessica Ferri re-examining the Twilight phenomena... yet again, but despite the fact that these commentaries are becoming as redundant as the genre itself, I find that I cannot fault her. Vampires are irresistible. They're sexy, mysterious, and at the same time, deeply iconographic-- a veritable wet dream for critics with a pulse (pun?). After all, it's interesting to look at how they've developed over time. How, in their considerable lifespan, vampires have gone from being the quintessential and morally dubious 'Other', to a virtual Everyman kind of figure; their struggle with bloodlust mirroring our own (supposed) struggle to maintain sexual purity. Such reflections are interesting the first, second, and even the third time we make them, but now, I'm afraid, they are done.

Everyone seems to have some disparaging and urgent thing to say about vampire literature, but frankly, its beginning to sound like the anxious chatter of addicts trying to talk their way out of an addiction. Enough already! (Although I'll admit in writing this, I too am perhaps implicit.)

One thing that does make Ferri's article a bit more interesting, however, than the typical pulp literature debasement, is the attention she pays to Twilight's all-too-human heroine, Bella, comparing her at length to the author's preferred Buffy (i.e. The Vampire Slayer):

Bella is your typical teenage girl, and Meyer wants to emphasize her ordinariness by making her one of the most boring, annoying obstinate heroines ever... Doesn't it say something about women's lib if the dice has rolled from Buffy, who slayed vamps without even breaking a nail, to Bella, who does nothing the entire book but whine to be deflowered by one?

Because it is funny and amusing, I do recommend checking out the full article. But mind you: just this last time. If I ever recommend another article concerning Twilight, or any other vampire-commentary, take it as a sign that I've been compromised and you should at that time cease to listen to anything I have to say. About anything.

Bibliophilia: Sounds like a sickness, doesn't it?

Evidently Borders has started its own online dating service guided by members' literary preferences. I would love to be able to say I'm surprised, but then I remember how many times I have stalked potential crushes' facebook profiles for their 'favorite books', and all of the sudden it all seems inevitable. I found out about the service from an article by David Barnett on the Guardian's BookBlog, and though my opinions are not nearly as cynical as his, I do imagine it would be a strange sensation to meet someone through, say, your shared love of Joyce-- like meeting your girlfriend through your mistress. You can check it for yourself:

'I don't know if Borders will actually be making recommendations for dates in the same way as they recommend books, but it would be priceless if members got regular email updates: "Did you enjoy, Mark, 34, of Swindon? Then you should try Gareth, 36, of Slough." Or: "After dating Sally of Birmingham, 86 per cent of customers go on to date Jayne of Devizes." '

Books and Technology

Here are a couple of articles I found through the Guardian newspaper's 'Books Blog':

The first is an article written by Michael Bywater about Amazon's Kindle (have one, by the way). In it he discusses some of the product's promising and not-so-promising features, from its capacity to make wireless purchases, to typographical issues, and the loss of reading texture the product seems to herald. He also has some interesting thoughts on what this could mean for the publishing industry, how the wireless aspect of the Kindle might be the thing that saves journalism, and how electronic and print media might actually come to support rather than exclude each other. Link to that article here. (p.s. check out some of the comments posted below the article bemoaning the American-esque 'wit' with which the it is written!)

The second article is about a new piece of technology presented at BEA, aptly named the Espresso. Basically this is a huge machine with a high-speed printer attached at one end, a high-speed color printer at the other, and what it does is print and bind books from electronic files in approximately four minutes a piece. At the end, the book slides out of a little chute at the bottom. This machine is part of a new movement called printing on-demand, which has some promising implications for how the publishing industry responds to supply and demand, and also product availability for the consumer. How many times have you been looking for a particular title or author that wasn't necessarily mainstream enough to make it into the local Barnes and Noble? This machine could easily put an end to all that, although I'm not sure what will happen to the venerable old pastime of browsing, which for me is a pretty important part of the book-buying experience. Anyway, the thing costs about $75,000 and most bookstores are too pinched by the recession to invest in that kind of technology at this point, particularly since there are some kinks that still need to be worked out anyway. Try paper jamming? Read more here.

It seems to me that a lot of the technology surfacing in those industries surrounding books has both promise and risk. True, there are a lot of subtle features of reading that are being threatened. A common analogy is the decline in Album art ever since iTunes basically swept away the CD. But I personally think a lot of those issues are ones that can be resolved as future generations of the products develop, and also by how the markets choose structure themselves. I mean, why can't eBooks make themselves available in different types? And why shouldn't Amazon offer discounts for books that have already been purchased in eBook form, and vice versa? Over all, I think the future for these technologies is promising, and could mean a great reduction in the stress placed by literature on the environment.

Some Words of Wisdom from the Master

Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? Have you reckon'd the earth much? Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of
all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions
of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through
the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books, You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, You shall listen on all sides and filter them from your self.

-Walt Whitman

Story: Runner-up Romance

You would say that discipline was my defining characteristic, and you would be correct. In high school particularly, I didn’t even date because I was busy training to be a wrestling champion. Back then, wrestling and romance seemed like conflicting principles to me, and I simply did not have enough focus for both. There’s a whole lifetime to get laid, I reasoned, but only four years to be a champ.

My senior year though the best I managed was to be runner-up in the Show, and I wasn’t naïve enough to continue in college (throwing a second place fish into a bigger pond does not improve its chances). Instead, I contented myself with beating up the guys in my dorm—late at night, past curfew, because none of them could bear the thought of girls watching me wax the hallway with their asses. With their reputations thus protected, they actually found the whole thing immensely entertaining, and didn’t mind lavishing me with compliments so that I acquired a certain late-night fame, though I pretended not to care.

But just as often as those impromptu wrestling matches, talk of sex was ritual in those late hours when girls were exiled from our quarters; some sort of consolation, I suspected, to compensate either for the embarrassment of having their asses kicked, or for the strictures imposed by the school’s ‘honor code’ (which, coincidentally, forbade sex in the dormitories). In either case, I would sit very quietly while they exchanged tall tales, face still red and glossy, attempting to stay as long as I could with the exultant feeling of victory, and that quickening in my chest.

Eventually though, I too managed to find a girl who seemed impressed by my wrestling prowess—though she obviously could never be there to witness it first-hand—who on our second date asked me to show her a move on the floor of her bedroom. My eyes, I’m sure, gleamed at this, for we wrestlers are not unaware of our trade’s interdisciplinary virtues, and already I considered how later on I might relate the story, late at night, and so broaden the scope of my fame.

Which move should I show her though? I wondered.

A double grapevine? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, I thought. Second date might be a little early to bust out a chest to chest pinning combination (not to mention one that involves a forcible spreading of legs). And besides, I would have hated to give the wrong impression. At that point, despite the regular late-night matches, I was actually quite out of practice, and so the moves may not have occurred to me as quickly as they would otherwise, but nevertheless, eventually I settled on what I was sure was the perfect one. If a pinning combination was premature, near fall, perhaps, were just the points I needed to score. (‘Near fall’ refers to points scored by exposing an opponent’s back to the mat at an angle of forty-five degrees or fewer. The amount of points awarded depends on the amount of time an opponent is held in a near-pinning position.)


“Alright, get down on your hands and knees,” I said.

Her eyebrows arched suggestively and the corners of her mouth flickered. She obeyed, bending down toward the thinly-carpeted concrete.

“This is called ‘referee’s position’,” I said, lumbering behind her. I placed my chest against her back and reached around with my right hand so that my fingers rested just above her navel, then paused for a moment. Without thinking, I hit the first motion hard, knocking her left arm out and pressing forward while my right extended into her thigh, stretching her instantly to her stomach.

“Hey!” she complained, surprised and obviously irritated.

I smiled sheepishly behind her head and apologized. “Habit,” I explained, and continued the demonstration. I was a little embarrassed by my over-zealousness, of course, but was assured it was still epic-romance-in-the-making. “This is called a spiral ride,” I explained. “See how the pressure flattens you out?”

“Uh… yeah.” Her laugh was half-sarcastic, but I could sense her good humor slowly resurfacing.

“But I don’t score any points by just flattening you out; what I’m counting on is you resisting…” I cued her hips to pressure back against mine. “See? The pressure on your shoulder forces you to a seated position…” But something about the motions caused a sudden flash inside my brain—or the firing of muscle memory perhaps—and no sooner had she reached her butt than I swung my body out from behind her and jerked her back toward the ground, causing her head to smack painfully against the floor.

“Ouch!” she yelled, and I was face to face with her now, instantly aware that it was not the romantic moment I had imagined, though I managed to console myself with the fact that I was at least still scoring near fall.

My "Work-in-Progress"

Many of you who know me also know that I've been slowly working my way through a novel (or what I hope will turn out to be one) for quite some time. Its working title is The Body and the Blood, though few have any idea what it is about. This is because whenever somebody asks me about it, a flood of its various premises overcomes me and I'm simply unable to determine which are pertinent to a description, and which are not. I've recently completed a first draft and am just beginning the second, so the whole thing is still very raw to me and tough to paraphrase, so in order to satisfy my interrogators (and also to organize my thoughts for the revision) I have come up with this little book jacket-esque description of the work and its themes. I've intentionally left out spoilers and excessive details, both for future readers and for myself--I would hate to take the fun out of writing it by getting stuck in various descriptions--though hopefully I've included at least enough detail to satisfy your curiosity. Enjoy, and you can look forward to the release probably a million years from now:


“For one cannot truly be counted human until [he] has fallen… Born innocence is a beautiful thing, but only innocence reclaimed fulfills God’s plan for us.”

So speaks Edward Hammond, the troubled narrator of The Body and the Blood. A defunct Catholic, much of Edward’s life has been dictated to him by different narratives: from the polemical texts of his faith, to various works of literature... His very name is derived from a character in one of his father’s novels! This first-person narrative, however, represents Edward's attempt to sort through and reclaim the broken fragments of his past. From a childhood in which both parents were in their own way absent, to life as the single father of a seven-year-old son, his account ultimately reveals a tender exploration of human depravity, and of the mysterious forces that bring people together. Interspersed with scenes from Eden and the tale of Original Sin, in these strained pages Edward makes his way ever backwards, with turns both comic and heart-rending, toward a hopeful salvation and release via the confessional power of narrative.

Poem: Official Scent

According to its bottle
Old Spice is the official scent of confidence,
and it’s true-- it is a fine smell.
Fine enough to skip showers now and then
and wax on another layer instead.
You don’t even have to remove your shirt
just watch in the mirror while an arm disappears
then you’re ready to go.
And what a grace it is
to be spared the body’s flaws;
to abide more fully
in the abstract world
of clothes and artful swagger.
So what if after a few days your armpit
looks like Shelob’s Lair?
It’s a small price to pay
to see yourself without contradiction;
the body’s truths subjectified.
Each week though the day arrives
when not even Old Spice
can mask your Unofficial scent,
and though you divert suspicion
by standing near people
just a little shabbier than yourself
at day’s end you are inevitably left standing naked again,
shadowless before the bathroom mirror,
waiting for the glass to fog
so that you’ll know the shower is warm.

Haiku

Cars passing in the street
light the curtain, but darken
the wall behind me.

Story: The Fist

I used to wonder what you clutched inside your fist, that famous appendage of yours, knuckles beaming like halogen bulbs. I remember it was large and tough, as if cut from a mountain side, and many were the foe leveled by its might. Many the loved one too, though most the time you’d only intended to caress.

I remember resting upon it at night; how I preferred that knotty lump to a pillow, though the sleep was often uneasy, as were the dreams. I used to imagine myself caught inside its grasp at night, our breaths like two sets of wings beating against the darkened wall.

But though your fist was magnificent for a time, soon it began to crumble. The skin on your knuckles split and every so often there was this faint trembling, like the shifting of plates inside the earth.

As word of your fury spread, the fights became fewer, and you made a weekly habit of cleaning the dust from between your fingers with cue tips and a bottle of Pledge. Our most intimate moment, I remember, was one morning in bed when you let me hold it in my lap and wipe the dust myself, though I admit I may have gone too far in kissing your fingertips. I still am not sorry.

The one part we could not maintain though was your nails, which, closed so tightly, could not be trimmed and cut into your palms, though I slept on it as always. And finally, I remember the day they bore so deep one must have tapped a nerve, and the shock caused your fist suddenly to fly open, whatever was kept there instantly dissolving the moment it met the sunlight, and then how I swiftly took hold.

Censorship and Discrimination on Amazon

So apparently Amazon has this new policy toward "adult" material which excludes certain books from their online searches and rankings. To me, that much is annoying in and of itself, but embedded in this policy also appears to be a certain hetero-normative bias which classifies many books with GBLT concerns, from classic literature to anthropological study, as "adult" while books containing explicit heterosexual material are left untouched. If you are as upset about this as I am, check out this petition (which has more information on exactly what kinds of books are being censored) and if you feel so moved, sign it.

Poem: Recycled Shrine

There is a shrine in my house that was built
for the Virgin Mary, to house
the immaculate mother’s effigy and to honor
all in God which is feminine. But near completion
the builder’s own mother died
and it became a shrine to her instead.
When my roommates and I moved in
we did not know what to do with such a space
and hung a yellowed portrait of John Wayne
stoic and squinting in his many guises,
and now I wonder just who will have to die
to find a place there instead.

Success!

This is just a note to those of you following this blog that I have just had my first piece accepted for publication. Yay! A short story I wrote, "Terms of Use", will be published in the inaugural issue of an online journal called Vivid this October. It is obviously a young magazine and hopefully but a stepping stone on my path to bigger and better things, but in my present emaciated state any success falls like a drop of water on a desert wanderer's tongue. Wherever you are, be abliged to drop what you are doing for a moment and throw back a glass of your finest to me!

Writing Down the Bones

Last night I went to BookPeople to check out a reading by Natalie Goldberg. I'd read a book that she wrote a long time ago, I remember, and really liked it. Its title was "Writing Down the Bones", and it's one of those books on writing that do not emphasize craft so much as learning to invest yourself completely in your writing, with the goal that, upon finishing, you will feel "used up" in some deeply clensing way. It is about learning to write through your fears, past your prejudices, from the deepest and most fundamental part of yourself. Another good book I've found in this vein, which I HIGHLY recommend, is called "Writing from the Body" by John Lee.

Anyway, I just wanted to share this one thought of hers that I found interesting: She was talking about addictions and the power that one gains by writing about them. She said that if she had her way, every addicts' group would require its members to recall, in writing, their favorite experiences with their substance of choice. It may seem like an odd way of facing addiction, but Ms. Goldberg claims that this practice actually helps turn the addiction into a passion, which is really quite a different thing. An addiction diminishes you, but a passion breaks you open. What occurs, I think, is a peculiar sort of reversal that alters the writer's relationship to the substance by his utilizing it as 'subject'; that is, something that HE is appreciating rather than the other way around.

I really like this idea, and believe the process may extend beyond substances to the rest of the things we carry with us from day to day, locked deep inside our bodies: those memories, insecurities, and fears which diminish us and prevent us from living our lives boldly. If you're interested, pick up one of these books I've mentioned. You won't regret it.

*Note: I actually prefer John Lee's book to Goldberg's.

Review: The Hazards of Love

This release has sort of slid beneath my radar the past couple of weeks. I can remember looking forward to it for quite some time and enjoying it when the first track was released on NPR a while back (“The Rake’s Song”), and yet it’s only been in the past couple of days that I’ve finally realized the album’s been out since March 17. Oh me… Didn’t take long for it to make an impression though. Pushing their reputation as “literary” musicians yet another step further, The Decembrists’ new release The Hazards of Love boasts an album-length narrative about a young changeling named William and his soul mate, Margaret; the love of whom helps to transform him in the album’s inaugural songs from fawn to man. As their story progresses, it is accompanied by a variety of different voices and perspectives, including William’s mother, a jealous and evil queen (who is sung by My Brightest Diamond’s Shara Worden), and her dark and deeply demented henchman, the Rake.

It is true that storytelling is nothing new for songwriting, and that is why past references to The Decembrists as a ‘literary’ band, I feel, have been a bit misguided, and at the very best unhelpful, but the way the band has structured their newest release around a single narrative has given me cause to reconsider. It’s not so much that there’s anything original about the story itself- in fact, the plot progresses much like your typical generic fairytale- but the way it is structured is of particular interest to those who, like me, listen to most of their music between trips to the library. As the story unfolds, the album is scattered with shifts in voice and perspective, with recurring bits of dialogue and melodies that, in their refrain, give the impression of one character calling to another across the album. And then there are the multiple reprisals of the album’s title track, “The Hazards of Love”, which each attend to a different character’s unique difficulties in Love. Even from an exclusively literary standpoint, I feel there something deeply gratifying about this album, and that’s not even to mention the music, which entails some of the band’s crunchiest riffs and darkest melodies- effects that are considerably augmented by Shara Worden’s menacing yet beautiful vocals.

Though the storyline is nothing new, the songs’ composition and orchestration often invest it with a nearly forgotten pathos, and create for the listener startling moments of amorous, I-don’t-care-if-it’s-cliché-style beauty. If you’re like me and have neglected to pick up the album until now, I suggest that you wait no longer, and when you do, be sure to have a printed copy of the lyrics nearby.

Here’s the first site I found to have the entire album’s lyrics posted.


Enjoy!

Poem: Artificial Sweeteners

People always warn me
about putting Splenda in my coffee,
mostly in hangover diners
with blinds drawn against the sun.
They’ll cock their shades usually
revealing a haggard set of eyes
that look as though they are still swimming
and say something like: “Shit’s bad for you man.”
And Splenda’s not the only one.
Deodorant too, I’m told, is a new-age no no
because it causes cancer. “Oh
go on and laugh now, but later you’ll cry.”
I sniff myself for malignant spores and respond:
“I thought that’s why Death was invented;
so that I wouldn’t have to make a fuss
about getting there. And anyway
do you really think life so fragile it would resist
our few granular attempts to make it sweeter?
Those to make it stink not quite so bad?
We're made of sturdier stuff than that, I think."
But a sudden lurch prevents his response-
the breakfast tacos are not sitting well-
and for just a moment I wonder
if I've maybe been proven wrong.

The Grad School Blues

I’ve just recently found out that my applications to the creative writing programs at Brown University and UT Austin have been rejected. Disappointing news, no less so because it means I may be leaving Austin if either of the other two schools- Brooklyn College or UNC Wilmington- decides to accept me. It strikes me now as incredibly arrogant even to have applied to the nation’s absolute best writing programs, simply because I was a notable student at a private college few people outside Georgia have even heard of. And then I’m going to take their rejection personally? I guess, like many people, I have grown used to the idea of myself as exceptional; young talent with no limitations to speak of.

But such, I am convinced, is the path life inevitably takes: our smaller stories opening into larger ones, our relative sense of ourselves dismantling as the field of reference opens always wider and wider. I’m sure this procedure takes different courses with different people, but I suspect we all at some point must at least exchange our childish prides for adult ones; trade our obsession with being the Best, for being simply the best that we can be. For even if I were never challenged, even if I graduated high school the best wrestler in the state, left college the most promising writer of my generation and so was never forced to waver in my self-estimation, would I not be subjecting myself to a willful ignorance? Would I not, in effect, be allowing that smaller world to close around me, to constrict my movements, permitting what is but a small part of my Self to stand in place of the whole?

And anyway, it is probably wrong to think of writing, as I do, as solely a question of talent. Am I really so arrogant as to believe that some individual truths are more valuable than others? That after bludgeoning the barriers that keep one from expressing his/her deepest Self, only a few have something original, complex, and challenging to say? No, it’s not a question of talent, I don’t think, but of practice. Any individual that is willing to persevere—that is willing to challenge himself in the destruction of his inhibitions, the confrontation of his demons, the dissemination of his intellectual prejudices—I believe is capable of masterworks. Craft is a matter of practice. Style, a matter of wide reading and experimentation. So what is it to me if these schools caught me a little earlier on in the process? Talent, I’m now convinced, is an illusion upheld by our childish, egotistical selves, and so my recent disappointments are indications only that I’ve got some growing up to do.

Don't Bring Me Down

Ok. So for those of you who don't know, in the beginning of February I was in this photo shoot organized by some friends of mine. The head orchestrators were Christina Shaffell and Rachel Feilds, who, between the two of them, hatched the idea of a promotional shoot for a fictional band. As it was presented to me originally, the idea was a wild one, possessing a wide range of inspirations from 18th-century haute couture, to '60s Jazz, to French poetry... and to be frank, at that point much was left to my imagination. But over the course of a few months these girls combined their considerable talents with those of some other cool kids, and eventually succeeded in making this fantastic art shoot happen.

Here's a brief rundown of the various contributions that were made, and also the people who made them: Christina Shaffell took some gorgeous pictures, Rachel Fields designed and put together some kick-ass threads, my cuz Cory Kimbro and her friend Willie Dickey handled the hair, Rose Archuleta painted faces, Erin Berkenkamp took care of the production stills and set design, while the artiste Travis Tarbox painted a lovely sea-scape backdrop. In addition to all that, Tim Thielen and Jacob Villanueva joined forces to produce a couple of films documenting the whole thing. Furthermore, those lending their beautiful bodies as models were (ah hem) myself, Willie Dickey, Travis Tarbox, Aaron Calhoun, and the lovely Alaina Chambers.

But that's not the end of it. On February 27, the girls managed to organize a huge opening event at the US Art Authority, in which both the pictures and video were displayed to the sound of live music by the Finn Brothers and the Crooks.

If you're curious, check out the shoot website to see the pictures and videos, and also pay homage to Christina at her blog. As soon as the pics are available in a form I can steal for my own commercial purposes I'll post a few here, but until then, check out the site. It is ALL really cool.

The Slippery Art of Adaptation

Salman Rushdie on 'Slumdog Millainaire':

"Boyle, when asked why he had chosen a project so different from his usual material, answered that he had never been to India and knew nothing about it, so he thought this project was a great opportunity. Listening to him, I imagined an Indian film director making a movie about New York low-life and saying that he had done so because he knew nothing about New York and had indeed never been there. He would have been torn limb from limb by critical opinion. But for a first world director to say that about the third world is considered praiseworthy, an indication of his artistic daring. The double standards of post-colonial attitudes have not yet wholly faded away."

This is just an excerpt from a rather long article in which Rushdie not only bashes the Slumdog phenomenon, but takes the opportunity to comment at length on the slippery subject of adapting language-based art forms to film, and also the way in which movies like Slumdog undermine the genre of magical realism with plots that, even considering their claim to 'the magical', nevertheless remain utterly implausible. Here's the whole article:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/feb/28/salman-rushdie-novels-film-adaptations

And on a related note, it seems that Stephen King is also on record trashing Stephanie Meyer's vege-vampire romance, 'Twilight'; comparing her books to those of JK Rowling, the primary difference being that "JK Rowling is a terrific writer and Stephenie Meyer can't write worth a darn. She's not very good."

Apparently, Meyer's fans were quick to rally behind her work, claiming King to be "just a bloody guy who is jealous of Edward's good looks." Of that much, I would say there is little doubt. Full article here:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/feb/05/stephenking-fiction

Poem: High School Contraception

They say she lacks school spirit
because she will not trade her low cut blouses
for ones with their Trojan mascot on them.
It’s not a matter of spirit, she insists, or decency,
but of principle: that stubborn 3 percent error
couched in each of the word Trojans’ connotations:
soldiers crouching till nightfall,
the translucent stain of spilled semen;
the promise that no protection is complete
and that the vehicle bearing us toward the future
though it may miss a few stops
will undoubtedly get there in the end,
though in the meantime it reminds us
with bright yellow letters
that every end is also a beginning
and that 3 percent is just large enough a margin
to spend one’s life crawling through.
It assures us for liability’s sake
that a child is not a catastrophe
and nor is a civilization burning,
for progress is as unfailing as demise, and yes
demise is unfailing. And what are our lives anyway
if not a Hydra of paths we haven’t chosen
but which spring up, two for every one we ignore?
But none of that matters to her
because it’s a t-shirt she won’t wear.
Ready to change the subject, she shrugs dismissively
and says she takes the pill
because 2 percent is better than 3,
and that might well have been the margin
that left Troy standing.

Poem: Eulogy for the Vampire Story

I want to write a vampire story
but what is left to say?
What could one more iteration of a premise
even as poignant as eternal thirst
contribute to the ambient hum of b-movie plots
and abstinence parables behind it?
Its ubiquity is a true shame, the vampire story,
for who has not known
the tragedy of unyielding desire?
Who among us
doesn’t crave an alter-ego through which to explore
those dark thirsts that drive us through object after object
in pursuit of something ineffable, which recedes
even as the horizon recedes?
Surely here’s a subject
Aristotle himself could unzip his pants to.
But our thirst, it seems,
has moved beyond vampirism; our fangs
retracted from a victim long since drained-
cast aside with all the other clichés
we’ve grown tired of hearing: love’s first kiss,
stories with sunsets, knights and happily-ever-afters.
And as I sit my weary heart down before this blank screen
I pause to wonder: just when did life get
so goddamn sweet?

Story: The Gnomes of Eden

I was gazing out the window when Jeff’s elbow suddenly dug into my ribs. “How bout that gnome, man?” His face was turned towards me, but his eyes fixed on a still figure crouched in a garden across the way.

“That is surely a gnome,” I answered and turned back towards evening. Outside, the steady hum of crickets was just beginning to call, but my attention to it was abstract; preoccupied by a startling sense that beneath my clothes I could feel my own nakedness- outside of them even- like I was back in the garden, on the verge of original sin, only the fall this time was backwards; a reverse stumble over the branching segments of human perception: its categories, its knowledge, its naming. Every opposition, sun and moon, hot and cool, seemed to occur now simultaneously, like an unfolded coin.

The sky alone was different- strangely soothing in its inconsistency. Like a murmuring stream the colors of evening drifted into one another: tidal shades of crimson rolling against the clouds, and swirls of amethyst deepening, then lightening. Reclining in my seat I watched it all absently, finding relief in the sky’s slow alternating rhythms; the steady breath of change… But then there were gnomes.

“I think I’m going to go get it,” Jeff said, suddenly recalling my thoughts.

“What?”

“The gnome, man. I’m going to go get that gnome. Don’t you want it with us?”

I shook my head and blinked, as if a pebble had just struck me on the forehead. “Get the gnome? Have you lost it?” I asked. But the syllables rang without conviction. The truth is I could not say whether it would be good or bad to have the gnome, and thus confused, I quickly became indifferent. “Just don’t let anybody see you.”

And so he crept carefully across the lawn towards the front garden. It was that moment of clarity which always occurs just before sunset, when things are most vivid. The grass bristled underfoot as he lifted the plaster figure from beneath a twisted tree, and there was a ridiculous strain on his face as he heaved it into the backseat and reclaimed his seat behind the steering wheel.

“Smooth,” I said, and he grinned as we slowly fled the scene, riding for a while in silence. I tried to think of something to say, something to distract me from the backwards tumble, but found myself unable to speak. There was a conversation in my head, but my imagination seemed to fill in both sides, so a confused silence settled between us.

At last one spoke:

“Can I have something to eat?”

“Fine with me,” I said.

There was a pause.

“What?” Jeff’s eyes left the road for a moment to scan my face.

“I said, ‘Food is fine with me’.”

“Yeah, I heard you,” Jeff replied, annoyed, “but weren’t you the one who just asked for it?”

“No.”

And the next scene unfolded as if through a lens: A shot of Jeff and I in the front seat as the car comes slowly to a halt. Wide eyes turn and meet one another, exchanging glances before each gaze falls on a spot in the back seat where a plaster figure sits, hungry for French fries.

The scene snapped back suddenly into real-time as peels of laughter erupted from deep in our stomachs. Making a U-turn, Jeff sped off to Wendy’s, where still giggling, he ordered three bacon cheeseburgers and a large French fry. As he passed back the gnome’s portion the girl at the window didn’t seem to mind what must have been a rather strange spectacle. We drove off munching happily on our food.

Jeff and I had a difficult time eating though, finding ourselves constantly interrupted by spastic fits of laughter that caused us to cough and nearly choke now and then. But eventually we settled and continued to drive, the ability to differentiate slowly descending now like the distant glow of familiar lights.

Speech finally issued from the back seat after a little while, penetrating the comfortable reverie we’d allowed ourselves to slip into:

“Can I go back now?”

Our features froze with alarm as our sense of the situation suddenly dismantled. Something was wrong with the question, with the speaker we realized, and in another moment of cinematic unfolding we looked into the back seat and were horrified to find, not a plaster garden gnome, but a very live little girl!

“Holy shit!” I couldn’t tell whether it was something we’d actually said or just a flash of psychic cohesion- a thought, a vision of terror we found ourselves suddenly both inhabiting.
Jeff drove faster now, speeding through the winding, sub-divided network of pale houses until, guided by the little girl, we finally made it back to the familiar lawn with the bristling grass (now obscured by darkness).

An interior light shone in the windows, but nobody was in sight as Jeff got out of the car and knelt before the little girl. I sat wringing my hands in the front seat as he grasped her shoulder at arm’s length and produced from his pocket a crumpled wad of bills. “Look at me,” he said harshly, desperation distorting his voice. I could see beads of sweat gathering on his forehead, and upon the girl’s face was a terrifying expression of vacancy. “Here’s all the money I have in my pocket.” He placed the wad of cash in her hand, and still grasping her shoulder, held up a single finger in front of her face. “Now listen to me… You must never talk to strangers.” And his grip on her shoulder tightened. “Alright? Promise me… you must never talk to them.”

And pocketing the money, she nodded her head, returning without a word to her still position beneath the twisted tree. Interior lights continued to glow as Jeff and I drove away silently, eyes fixed ahead of us, neither looking back.

Poem: On Growing Up

I sometimes misread the poems you send me,
carried away occasionally upon a new
and unexpected voyage of meaning,
and arrive at next line breathless, exhilarated
until I recognize my mistake and nod once more
at the sound progression of your logic
sighing into the steam of my coffee.

It reminds me of when we were kids,
when huddled beneath a blanket you pointed
toward the stars. “That’s Cassiopeia!”
you whispered, pressing close
and tracing its shape with your finger
until looking past I watched one shining point
open into many- infinite figures
in the night’s geometry- and smiled.

You smiled too, thinking I’d seen
what you’d set out to show me, and together
we laughed until our eyes
were moist as the grass beneath us, content
in our understanding of one another.

Story: Chandni Chowk

*Here is an excerpt from a longer story I wrote upon returning from India called "A Journal of Things Held":

A haze of kerosene and petrol hung between vehicles at the traffic light, wavering in the air and bending the figures moving between cars selling every variety of book, magazine, flower, and sliced coconut; while others offered only good karma and the joy of giving.

A child staggered up beside me and the rickshaw driver cast him a sidelong glance, paying no further attention. There was an open wound on his shoulder- a laceration like a knife- and the hand he held out to me was also disfigured, mangled as if it had been broken over and over. He spoke something slow and in Hindi, ending with Please, and I reached into my pocket to find only a fifty rupee note, placing it delicately into his hand. I would have given more if I could spare it, but even so, I noticed the driver scoff and shake his head in the mirror. The boy held the money in his hand and made a small bow, thanking me in strung sentences that seemed to be neither Hindi nor quite English. And as the light turned green we continued our journey to India’s largest fort, built by the Mughul emperors and palace to centuries of Indian rulers.

We drove in silence for several moments, and the driver cast me several glances in the rearview mirror before he finally spoke. “The boy,” he began, having nearly to shout to be heard over the engine. “He do to himself.”

“What?” I shouted back.

“Himself…” He made slashing motions with his hands and rubbed his palm for money.

I nodded and didn’t say anything, wondering at the sensation I felt: that I’d been deceived. The boy had manipulated me. Shown me something that had not been done to him, but by him, and unknowingly I had been patron to this apparent tradition of self-mutilation. But after thinking about it for a while I am not so sure. Not at all, in fact.

Poem: Night Path

Rubbing our heels
we hardly notice
its will:
blades of grass bending
before each step,
the wet
shape of your foot
glowing white
in the dark.
For a moment
I wonder
if you can see me
through the ruined window
when licking your lips
the glass fogs
a moment
as we pass.

Poem: Contact

I remember the moment the world stopped,
enunciated by a final tick and the first
long gasp of silence

How we lay together
as our planet paused thoughtfully
marveling at its quiet; not so much as a cricket’s song
to share our whispering.

For years the world stayed this way
and we grew pale from holding one another;
unable to come any closer but content
even as the world outside began to wither.

The air grew cold, and the ground
hard, and the leaves fell early in winter.
Even when spring came, still they remained
listless and piled upon the ground.

Out front, our sycamores held mangled limbs
toward a sunrise that would never break, and I remember too
how your breath would sometimes whistle
like a winter breeze through their stiff branches.

Poem: Cobwebs

I breathe into my hands and turn the keys to get the Chevy warming,
waiting for Dad’s thick denim profile to emerge from the house.
When it does he’s grasping a mug, and bending his mouth
to where the coffee has burned him, crossing the empty space of the garage,
his hard features framed by a cobweb in the corner:
its freshly spun threads shining in the cool morning light.
I watch as he approaches and at the last moment swats it down with his hat,
afterwards climbing half-heartedly behind the steering wheel.
I shift his bagged lunch to keep him from sitting on it and catch myself
staring abstractly at the mangled web, waiting for the reverse gear to sound.

But we are still.

I turn to find that his eyes too are trained on the ruined structure,
or looking past it, foggy and indistinct like pools of milk.
“Godammit,” he says at last in a voice raspy with sleep.
“Build it there and of course it’ll be wrecked by morning.”
And I say nothing; just sit silently for a moment and wait
for the laborious pound of the reverse gear to sound.
When finally it does, he clutches the back of my seat and scans the driveway
behind us, and on his cheek I can see this faint glistening- a single shining stream-
then watch him turn into his dirty sleeve as we shift into drive,
waiting for the glare to erase him as we accelerate beneath the risen light.