These items won’t last long! Act now or spend the rest of your life fighting regret with booze, pills and cheap sex.
Me, to a kid who just ran a block to catch my bus, “You know, if you pulled up your pants, you might be able to run a little faster.”
Kid, to me after he gets off the bus, “You know, if your mouth was a little bigger, you might be able to suck my dick.”
Elisheba, young Aaron’s wife, saw
The scorching sun and torrid sand
On Israel’s treck avow no shadow
Nor soothe the azure sky – such land
Where all the colors drained from Eden
And drowns a rainbow’s hope for heaven…
The voided desert shades refuse,
In justice, spectrum’s seven hues.
Elizabeth, though, aging wife to
Old Zachariah, sits and rests
And waits to see her promised guests
Descend the everlasting hills now
From heaven’s blue – her mantled earth,
An advocate for mercy’s birth.
It’s dawn. Awake? Yes, awake. And each time
I marvel at your timing – arbitrary
As cloud’s deconstruction – inchoate shape
To form, animal to goblin, toy to dream;
Certain as logic’s tumble-grind of gears;
Quiet as mountain air before a storm.
Half-awake I detect your ramble down the hall,
As capricious as a dancing dust mote
That climbs its way down a staircase of sunlight
Pouring in through a generous window.
You pad into our room on monkey feet.
Suddenly beside our bed, blooming, spring’s first,
You cling to dawn’s hour like autumn’s last leaf.
Your touching face that no one sees is set
Against the dying darkness, encouraging it
To other hemispheres now that you are here.
With chill air and flailing sheets, you announce
The world is not as you left it last night.
Then turn your head away, because, after all, [Read more...]
Y’all and Me
You, Webb, are a warm front
that moved in from the north (by way of California),
a blind spot bearing beautiful gifts; and
Quinn, you’re a garden in the air for sure,
Seattle Sub specie aeternitatis with tendrils dangling down.
Angelico, O.P., would you deny you are a golden L.A. filament
inscribed with the name of God’s hunting dog?
Southern Expat, ye be, unmistakably,
a magic Georgia heirloom mistaken for a Texas feather duster;
JOB, obviously: a fountain in a Wisconsin cow pasture
is what you are, spouting Wisconsin poetry constantly;
and Lickona the anachronistic anagram
annoyed by anonymity, the dollar in the pocket
of a New England winter coat in San Diego summer.
And me? I am the discoverer of y’all.
“Apple says there’s going to be a new U2 album every day until you buy their stinking watch.”
More details here.
The air is as still as deep water in a creek.
The sense of summer is regret for something spent.
As we walk along, silence is snapping quick
Beneath the weight of a fallen twig or branch.
A whisper scurries beneath the carpet
Of dead leaves, brown, chthonic, grossly vegetative
Coated with something that seems to waver
Between the substance of soil and dust –
Indecisive about how to carve immortality’s
Signature in the forest floor, the ground decays
Like a voice left out in a night of hard rain sogged
With the same choking intensity of rain itself.
While looking at the asymmetrical arabesque
Of sunlight among hectic treetops, this late
Summer day, I hear the concentration
Of animal suffering in that same voice, yours,
Sobbing softly in my garden plot, not departing
Not arriving, but saying something in between,
In that time all creatures were there to name,
Before we knew each other enough to know
A bear and her cub are not so soon parted
As human beings and their paradise.
On September 18, 2014, Divine Providence Press will publish, under one cover, both 8 Days and Virtue, Andrew McNabb’s book-length prose poem, or “mystical prayer.” These two works are inextricably linked; as McNabb details in 8 Days, it was at the very moment he typed the period that would end Virtue that his odyssey emphatically began.
In 8 Days, he recounts the ecstatic mystical religious experiences that took place in his life over an eight day period in 2011. With literary attention, this career short-story writer, husband, and father of four details how he was swept up into a place “not quite here” and “not quite there,” a place in which he experienced both the ethereal and the terrifying, the awe-inspiring and the confounding.
Virtue is a paean, a poetic and prayerful work that seeks, also, to be instructive by way of a logical progression which culminates, ultimately, at that highest point on the spiritual mountain: union with Him in true love.
Order it here.
Great episode of This American Life, particularly Act II — about Emir Kamenica, the mysterious Miss Ames, and the fascination of how points of view and memories about the same experience can diverge. It’s one of those episodes you sit in the car listening to long after you’ve pulled into the driveway. (Side question: why does sitting in the car in the driveway increase the pleasure of the listening experience?) Plagiarism plays into the tale, and there’s an entertaining personal anecdote on that topic by the interviewer (Michael Lewis: Liar’s Poker, Moneyball, The Blind Side,) at the outset. Stick with it beyond that into the main story, though. It’s well worth listening until they succeed in tracking down Miss Ames and getting her take on the remembered events.