Amazon.com Widgets
  • To write and write, like a wheel or machine

    At work in this hermitage (formerly Aladdin’s cave) as the wider world closes down: No lightening in a bottle. No convulsion. No brow-mopping. Without provocation. Without resolutions. Luster-free. No black ants. No brown moths. No biting irony. Acid-free conversation. What’s an author who already has Oblomov-omatic tendencies to do? “To write at night,” thought Oblomov;(…)

  • Quibbles could (filings from Eugene Vodolazkin)

    kl. 715 a string of sledges about Poles including the fish knife ibid 12 quibbles could footnotes became the short word they has rabbit fur hat central Russian breeze

  • Born to fly backwards (gusts from Edmund Gosse)

    born to fly backwards not young, solitary a decay in energy Rousseau forbade irregular pleasures the brethren simply neither knew nor cared the green swallowed bold carnation and black tresses   denizens of Babylon of one mind arrogance of potpourri her high bed long, long unfixed, uncertain in a cold fog serene and sensible no(…)

  • Harry (planks from Anthony Trollope)

    as nothing to Harry mellow heroes   Lord Burton had told

  • Pushkin at table (tidbits from Sara Wheeler)

    eating caviar with my fingers a Russian not in the news Pushkin at table male friendship only when he had a sexually transmitted disease the flagging cause the color of corn flakes Irena broke into a poem eight time zones from Petersburg treading on toes his one hundredth-fifteenth love slush and mud in April roads(…)

  • Written by sitting still (murmurs from Robert MacFarlaine)

    written by sitting still a reconnoiter inwards   a young way archives of insincere apologies charcoal trees   discontinuous moments

  • Missing top teeth (cavities from Helene Stapinski)

    died on Ash Wednesday fresh blue and purple bruises ‘shut your trap’ to Meadow View yellow hallways soggy pot roast Vince swept skinny arms were his missing top teeth   and whistle lucky 50/50 raffles   part smirk to play house everyone’s wake bus to the Senior Prom daddy’s swag   passing our Parish by

To write and write, like a wheel or machine

At work in this hermitage (formerly Aladdin’s cave) as the wider world closes down: No lightening in a bottle. No convulsion. No brow-mopping. Without provocation. Without resolutions. Luster-free. No black ants. No brown moths. No biting irony. Acid-free conversation. What’s an author who already has Oblomov-omatic tendencies to do? “To write at night,” thought Oblomov;(…)

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