What a Reader Wants

“To be sure of getting something above the average,” Edmund Wilson tells us, in his disparaging take on the genre, “Why Do People Read Detective Stories” (October 14, 1944), “I waited for new novels by writers who are particularly esteemed by connoisseurs.” But Wilson is repeatedly disappointed, in Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe, in Agatha Christie,…

Born to Read

Born to read. How boring is that? You could have been: Born to Be Wild Born to Be Bad Born to Lose Born in a Trunk Born Again Born Before the Wind Born to Run Rock and roll is the universal elixir the alchemists sought. Most US kids know the formula, share autobiographical characteristics, the…

Rubbing Amber

The new monks like moths gather to the light scree falls into the folds of their feathered skin robes amid foul screens callous bawls window shades pulled down the game glows with electric flames warm and hand wrapped wireless controllers fingers jostle the joysticks.

Whorlscope

Whorled weary for this world’s woes worsened by winter’s whistling wicked wishes as worrying as this watch of one’s web life ebb, and if that’s not maudlin enough, sick of this car’s cough, too, its needy changes and fillings, its overheated tantrums, leaks, stalls, and traffic jams, the orange cones and potholes and all ways…

An Impure Primer

A beastly catechism dog eared brown cat  drenched frozen green halo. I just kwikzilver looked. Mighty nice mice nook. Opening opinion pending please query queue quorum. Run straight toward universe vast wobbly. Exit your zero.

Feast of Epiphany

Epiphany In the straw burrow farm mice. Get a little closer and you’ll see Nits in baby Jesus’s hair, lice, And a house snake in the olive tree. There’s beer on the breath of the three Sage men sitting under the olive tree, Playing games of cribbage, Ushering in a new age. The pieces are…

Drizzle Rain

A trip of plovers paused wading in the wet sand of an ebb tide each one after another across the sloping beach stopped and pecked and ran on. Up on 101 a swarm of workers on a wet sidewalk in winter huddled at the bus stop waiting and each one hopped aboard and nipped and…

Epiphanic Cat

A kin of kindly epiphany, unblinding, not whiskey aflame in your raw throat, a mud dog’s bouche to your uncupped groin, but the silent soft brush of a cat rub against your leg to say hello and please pay attention to her.