selected past writing at 42opus
Being acquainted with a newspaper reporter who had a couple of free passes, I got to see the performance a few nights ago at one of the popular vaudeville houses.
One of the numbers was a violin solo by a striking-looking man not much past forty, but with very gray thick hair. Not being afflicted with a taste for music, I let the system of noises drift past my ears while I regarded the man.
of snow dust
on pigeon shit
at the end of another year
20 September 2009 | poetry
lately i am fascinated with lines,
with the edges of things: where i end
and where the world begins.
2 March 2003 | poetry
The day her husband died, her period stopped. It just shut itself off and left her, left the blood building and boiling inside, fermenting into this rage that she could only release at the piano. It wasn't supposed to happen like that…