A cyclist went past and cleared his throat and spat a squirt of red betel juice at us, just missing Eden's dress. Eden did not see it as hostility. The man was just a bumpkin on a bike."- Paul Theroux
Friday, May 13, 2016
Friday, May 06, 2016
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
Monday, April 18, 2016
Sometimes I think of my dad in the summer. He’s in the backyard sitting under the small leaf maple tree eating a hot dog with sauerkraut and watching the hummingbirds. They buzz across the suburban lawn shining in the sparkle of the sprinkler’s rainbow mist.
Monday, March 28, 2016
Monday, February 15, 2016
When in April the kind showers fall
grooming March who was parched to the root and all,
filling every vein with the liquor and the power
to inject life therein and grow many flowers.
Zephyr, too gassy and bloated for words, blows
heathen gusts into every husk, every rusted heath,
while the tender crops, and the young sun,
middle-aged scum, sleeps —
and wired warblers
the night with dead eyes open-wide.
(Coaxed by nature, we rampage lightly)
men and women-folk alike, palm-reading pilgrims,
reed-playing palmers, we long to go on long pilgrimages
to seek out new Strands and pay respect
to the old shrines well-known in distant lands,
from every shire's end
of England to Canterbury we go,
to find the great leader
and bliss-out our souls.