selected past writing at 42opus
The wind tugs at the loose treeline.
Dark skiers push through fog—
the snow adjusts its many shrouds
while blind sled dogs awaken beside the river.
NAS FUT 1012.0 ↓ 31.5. The birches
slice a dull sun.
20 May 2010 | poetry
This story takes place years ago when every person was born with geographical destiny printed onto their skin—usually the bottom of the foot, sometimes a thigh or the back of the calf. If the words weren't clear—too faint, improperly formed, or with crucial letters missing—a family waited with great eagerness, checking the bottom of the foot (or the thigh or the back of the calf) every day to see what had emerged, the way one might peer into the murky bloom of a Polaroid. And although some believed a newborn's geographical destiny shouldn't matter, since it might be years before the child went off to meet it, in fact, to many people it did matter; so that parents whose geographical destiny was, for instance, Kansas City found it difficult to love without reproach a child born with the word Albuquerque across its knee.
When you go off to Albuquerque, they'd say, then you can have a skateboard. Or, Your father and I want a house, but we've got to save our money for phone bills and airfares. Oh, what do you care, soon you'll be running off to Albuquerque.
i am able to sit through an extremely funny movie
without making a noise or changing my facial expression
i am incapable of laughing without trying to laugh
4 July 2005 | poetry
Near the old Jefferson Airplane mansion, in back of a cab on the right side, drunk on more than wine, I'm looking over at the sedan next to us. The passenger is the stellar blonde replica of a porn star/exotic dancer of some repute.