Writing

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barrelhouse

I am fourteen and here is Orion, or no, it’s a calamity of aircraft, or no, not even that, just a funny little satellite to one of the minor stars.

The Orbit of Known Objects, Tahoe Blues Anthology, Bona Fide Books

 

Plum trees were everywhere that season: tree, branch, and those absurd blossoms that hint at what Nabokov might have been right about after all, that life is, in fact, nothing but a joke. Yet, jokes make us in the end, laugh, and so maybe it’s Roethke who gets it right when he says that we end in joy. Maybe that’s what happens. Who knows? Not me, not yet. If I find out later, I’ll try to let you know. The leafless plum tree with a distinct red accent to the branches defined the diagonal through Mom’s head to the brussels sprouts in the bottom left corner.

Still Life, The Apple Valley Review

 

dansemacabre

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bakery

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