Kenny rang the bell and shouted, “Last call! Drink ’em up! You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here!” It had been a good night. He would walk with around $200 in tips and needed every penny of it for his annual trip to Key West. Plus, his girlfriend was always tight […]
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A poem is an equation written on the wind, riding on memory from one seer to the next, ancient as the spoken word. I can see the last of the species scribbling away in a feverish dream as the sun burns the ground, furnace in the lungs, every color flooding the mind, recalled in silence.
My visit to the Amitabha Stupa in Sedona several years turned out to be one of those epiphanies that shift the direction of one’s life. I knew little about Buddhist tradition and even less about Buddhist architecture. I learned from some research that stupas originated in India nearly 2,600 years ago, before the Parthenon was
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In the mid-1700s, natural phenomena were so poorly understood in the American Colonies that lightning was considered by many to be an indicator of God’s wrath. Accordingly, if lightning struck a house and caused a fire, neighbors often let the home burn to the ground because they figured this was God’s intention. Then in 1753
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In “Why I Continue To Write: Thirty-five years after Last Exit to Brooklyn,” Hubert Selby Jr. says of his youth, I went into the hospital in 1946, with advanced tuberculosis, and altogether I spent three and a half years in the hospital. By the time I got out I had had 10 ribs removed, one
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Lana plucked a grilled cheese sandwich out of the pan and noticed she had burned one side. She dropped it onto a plate with the burned side down and carried it over to Mark at the kitchen table. “Here you go, babe.” She studied his receding hairline and thought about the night she first met