Words can paint, each letter, a bristle of a brush. The sentence becomes a stroke. Paragraphs shape objects. A portrait needs no beginning, middle, or end. When we look deep at a painting, we can’t help but wonder why the Mona Lisa smiles. If you look deep enough at portraits, close enough to pick out desire, they jump out of the frame. The frame is the story. Break out! Break out!
Her eyes…opaque. If you look into them, she won’t return your greeting. Her sight fixes upon someone who’s not there, as if the air holds a face that no one can see except for her. In words you don’t trust, she tells you what… Continue Reading “The 99 Cent Lady”
Denny and I, with his Wasco legs, inside Gifford Pinchot… Late, when the dust of the gravel road settles, fast, into black… We cup our hands, to make an old whistle, like the hoot of an owl To settle our minds, to settle our… Continue Reading “Wishpoosh”
The deer mouse comes out, when the night covers the entire sky. Through foliage, appearing in little instants, eyes gleaming black, tail flying behind him. He’s in the peripheral of your flashlight as his jump crests the undergrowth. His business, a serious endeavor,… Continue Reading “Silent Friendship”
The high lakes, frozen, clear, Distort reflections of the mountain. Old men with trekking poles Filter through the forest. All with some form of Achilles And Homeric hunger pangs. Drawn to recite soliloquies To the unmoving cold. Return to the… Continue Reading “The High Lakes”