January 2011
6 posts
The Cherry Blossom Tree
. I saw Keats on the street today, furiously scribbling below the cherry blossom tree, the very one that I have attempted to describe in words for so many years, and for so many years failed so miserably. I have never had the luxury of language afforded the romantic poets, for my blood lies in the mud of the working class and the last century; but whenever I pass by the cherry blossom tree, I cant...
cormac
.
Made up of equal parts
disappointment and wishful
thinking, the first sentence,
consisting of seventy eight
words and two commas, stared
back at me without blinking.
I read it a second time.
The opening paragraph - so well
written, so perfect, so humbling -
gave rise to the question:
Should I continue reading,
knowing that if the rest of
the book is half as good,
I may never...
The man in the corner who never said a word
. In his top hat and collapsing chin, the English professor, who had spent the last twenty minutes arguing with whoever was listening, shook the last drop of single malt onto his cantankerous tongue, wiggled a finger at the bartender with his other hand, before putting the glass down and continuing. ‘A word, when left alone, can say all that is needed to be said! Simply put, words such as yes, ...
The Frosty Gardener
. There’s a man outside my window mowing snow. Like I’m crazy. So, I yell ‘Hey! Can you come and mow my swimming pool when you’re done?’ and he says ‘No fool no! Mow your own damn pool!’
the finished symphony
.
He completed
her sentences;
she started his.
He loved her
to pieces;
she loved
him to bits.
silk
.
To spite last night: the light of day and with the mist of morning still lifting, a used-shirt climbs into an old suit, wrapped in a burgundy two-tone tie; gold tipped socks, with a hole in one of the toes, slide into scuffed shoes - the heels worn down to the point where they will be noticeable soon. In the mirror, an eye drop pauses, loosens it’s grip and runs down his cheek onto his...