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!
Up here, the rain might not end. The mountains yank it down. Leaves, thistles, and remnants of yarrow, who only months ago relinquished their hold on the land, now find themselves pummeled into a wet carpet. You walk cautiously. You think of snow. A… Continue Reading “Mountain Rain”
He wears rocker shirts. Wears one for a couple weeks straight. Mötley Crüe, Maiden, Def Leppard. After a while, they turn into a fuzzy beige, frayed, stretched, slept in. Matches his forehead above them, receding hairline, exposing a weathered field of grease and veins.… Continue Reading “Weathered Shirts”
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”