...the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life...

Friday, July 31, 2015

Fiona Apple

To live with your nerves so close to the surface makes for a compelling artist, but it must be exhausting. Or maybe it's not. In any case: Jeepers is Fiona alive.

Thursday, July 16, 2015

James Tate, 1943 - 2015

Ancient Story

      At midnight I went outside to look at the
full moon. Bats were feasting on mosquitos.
Out in the field a coyote was howling. The field
was bathed in yellow light, and I could
see him, his head thrown back, like a passionate
tenor in an eerie opera. I wanted to join him, but
my howling was rusty. I walked slowly and quietly
in his direction. Several times bats swooped within
an inch of my face. My blood was rushing. The coyote
saw me and went on singing. I froze in my
tracks. It was beautiful. His song told some
ancient tale of grief and sorrow. I started to
whimper. And that turned into squealing. Then I
was bawling and weeping. Kind of blubbering, with
some yips and yelps thrown in. My head thrown back,
I began to wail. And I couldn’t stop wailing, it
felt so good. I had wakened the whole neighborhood,
and now they, too, were wailing.


Tuesday, July 14, 2015


Third scrub rabbit this walk. Vulture above that pond
Crosses before and over me gliding by the one
On my right, ignoring me, looking for meat
To fill the truck. There's mullet in clear water,
Shovelnose shark, sharing it with two herons,
Whose squawks of dispute cut through the audio
Earbuds feed me. Scrub birds, small wrens?
Finches? Gnatcatchers?—I know few birds—
Fly and flit and yip, unbound by the path that takes me
Onward, like a rider on a dark ride looking 
At the mechanical array, with a thrill he paid for,
Screened from nearby humans, forgetting they’re there,
Pretending to, maybe not. Each image and perspective 
Is made for him. What powers the rattle in the bush?