Off of the northeastern coastline there was a series of islands that won bread and butter through fishing. We walked off the ferry and through various docks while noticing vessels come in slowly boasting sides protected by worn plastic fenders on ropes affixed to…

I caught sight of him standing near the nails.

A black and white Malamute chasing down a deer to the edge of the water, and putting her mouth on it. The hurt deer fallen into the water to escape. Red blood floating out into the water like cloth. The boy racing down the slope into the reeds t

Are there places that words cannot go? Consider words going where they were never intended to go.

I can't show you the territory- not quite yet, not how I see it. But I do have a map, a glorious and vain construction. It gives you a glimpse, a sight. I wish you could see it all.

When silence makes his way next to me on the narrow path, I let his arm brush mine, and I stop singing with the birds. So, in the vast forest filled with songs and rustling, silence and I follow our path to the edge. Two tranquil strollers, meditating on the ancient voices…

Talking about the event years later, all of the observers agreed to a surprising extent on God's details. God was not an old man with a beard, nor a halo of light, nor a burning bush. God was an absence, a disruption of vision. When you looked right at Go

His hands are old But still function As hands

I thought I saw you once When you were still quite young Surveying great beauty Like a rain shower in the sun And I can still hear them nearby Those sharp voices of our youth Shouting with pleasure in the fields While looking at the sky

Twig arms, Send me back then back again. The skeleton of our home Lives above the town

A drunken evening, both men soused and twitchy. An argument ensues with Yellow House roommate Paul Gauguin. The two dissing each other’s work like clicking beetles

A raininess envelops you already in the womb. The water that began in the mouth a generation before you, away from any explanation, reason, or need for speech, and now seeks out the same dear lovable blood in you as those who came before you – these are

Eugene O'Neill is remembered as a troubled, brooding artist, but he had grown up in the theatre and was a hustler for the business of himself as well.

There is no love triangle more tangled than that which snares a pet, its owner and an amorous veterinarian.

angels and lambs drunkards and whores