[We Are Eat] pdf version
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Outside the window the rats struggle in the grass, squealing like an unhappy tennis match. My wife smiles at the sound; she figures it’s nature.
She gets up to put her cake plate in the sink but stops halfway there to inspect something in the carpet.
“Is that a bloodstain?” she says.
I don’t look at her, pretend I’m enjoying this Smithsonian.
She sets the cake plate next to the lamp and approaches. “Bleeding?” she wants to know. “All over again?”
“It’s nothing,” I say, and my fingers reach for my nose. “It’s just the weather’s so dry.”
She drops to a knee and puts her chin in my lap. Her nails pinch the seam in my pant leg. “You’re ok,” she says, to reassure not her nor me.
I don’t tell her what I couldn’t know, and the rats play tennis. My wife grins, the lamps burn.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
The Novelist Rests
I met Eudora Welty on the corner; she was taking a photograph. "Eudora," I said, "I didn't know." "Why yes," she answered, "I've been interested a goodly while. What a pleasure to catch time, suspend it in emulsion. It's right hard being god of the clock." I left her there with a man in a beautiful white shirt. I walked down the street, the horses nosing their reflections in the trough.
Lee Miller said, "The lens is a fulcrum. As much beauty at the eye, so at the subject." We laughed, she was drunk, her vanity a charm against the bombs that fell on the London night. Two years later though, we would find a bar in the forest near Dachau. "I saw a German guard murdered," she said, "Drowned. I took his picture." We drank our coffee and agreed, even that was circled with a certain terrible light.
Aesthete at Breakfast
Stephen Shore took a picture of his pancakes. He took a picture of the busboy and of the swinging yellow door to the kitchen. Then he smoked a cigarette. "I could take a picture of you," I said, "with the smoke in your hair." "No, no," he answered, "too much mystique." He composed his eyes, mouth, nose, ears as quietly as possible. The waitress in her pink smock looked at the both of us and smiled.
Monday, February 4, 2013
Saturday, February 2, 2013
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Will the members stand
If you were a woman and threw your leaves to the ground, then the trees. Roofs and skies some silver change. Oh lord, she says, something red.
Sirens no emergency but the calling of sleep. Sidewalk take the knees, the silver walking down. Come here, she says.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
The snow’s wind puts waves across the lake, these black-torn crimps. Down their throats the snow, lashes wild. You cold? he says, waiting on her. I think we’ll die, she answers. Her mitten hangs from the sleeve, her eyes the color of some much better place. But he does touch her shoulder once, the leaves do gutter in the tree.
Inward come geese the flatted lake. Out the smoke the shell of reeds.
We thought the crow was wire and snow.
The day-white blood. The heart-stroke air.
The Kinder Child
The room grays in light, gray cat, gray music, gray buddha, gray god, the fallen starlight, the fallen man, gray window, gray wind, the risen starlight, rising light, gray sun, gray light.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
He waited far in the adult wing for news. The cases called out blond and red. The letters there would shimmer, Oh wait for me. His eyes were the holy feast.
The shell had burst across the capillaries, a muskrat bloom. The dog in its honey coat nosed the wind for more. She bent, here her knees seeking evening light.
They felt they needed to cross the dirty river, the slick of moss and broken concrete. Wrists and eyes ached for the effort—half way in half an hour. Why here? they said, Why now? Why any? The slick of paper and foam, the eager, golden vision.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
The sunlight was red and puddled on the soil. She would take her shovel to it once by once, wiping forever the proverbial mud. She looked as well toward an eastern shore, there as some sun did draw. A new poison of ants crossed her hands.
As the antelope might, he cast back, the nose and shoulder, the blue eyes of coal. Six months underground and still no spring.
A Coming of Men
They drew the ring upon the snow, clapping in the cold. With stones they made patterns random only to the eye. What do you think? he said. Her white shoulders told it all in return.
The dry slap of his subsequent dream, the 14th child.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Friday, November 30, 2012
Cosell rushed home then—a place he spent precious little time in—kissed his four children on the head as they sat on the floor watching TV, and went straight up to the bathroom. Taped to the underside of the sink was his stash, 6 brown cubes of the sweetest chat Eritrea had to offer.