For Lindy I’ve written this poem a thousand times in my head Before I ever put pen to paper. You see, there’s a part of me that’s not–not a lot– Just some flotsam discarded on a road long unguarded. I left Lindy by the wayside before I turned 25, And although I tried, I couldn’t stop looking Over-shoulder to see if she came after. She followed me home until I
They were both up before dawn and doing chores in the cool silence. Kyle headed over to the hen house to get some eggs and shore up some chicken wire. Evelyn went to the barn to check on the livestock. She milked their two cows while she was there. They returned to the cabin and placed the eggs and milk on the kitchen table, then visited the greenhouse, which was
I ate a raspberry yesterday. Big deal, you might respond. Anybody can do that. And it’s true. For a price, anybody can buy and eat raspberries. But not the one I had. First of all, I’m not a big fan of raspberries au natural. In jam or cheesecake, yes. After all, cheesecake makes everything taste better. But this raspberry was satisfying in a way that transcended taste. The bush that
My friend, colleague, and fellow native Alabamian, Gary Walker, wrote an excellent USR essay a couple of weeks ago reflecting on being a writer who just happens to be from the South. Despite others’ expectations that he write about red dirt, hunting, fishing, football, the land, and the people, Gary confessed that he doesn’t really feel motivated to write about Dixie-themed topics. Gary’s admission is a little surprising (after all,
A couple of months ago, I came before you, friends and readers, to herald the return of that nexus of alternate dimensions, spiritual possession, unexplained murders, damn fine coffee, and cherry pie that is Twin Peaks. Now, with thirteen episodes in the rear-view, I’m back to report on my findings. First things first: It’s been a confusing, funny, creepy, and weird ride. It’s been hypnotic, astounding, and occasionally even beautiful.