Literature
Campfire Pop
The hot medium of flames smacks
upward, whacks sheer eyes
with a stencil of blue and green.
Foreigner
There is a foreigner
on this shore.
From foreign lands, with
Foreign hands,
Knocking at my door.
a study in beauty and happiness, or maybe they are the same thing
4 pm sunlight carves golden frames on cream walls
a city, blue glass and white birds,
dances beyond
The Lions on the Library Ceiling
Have you seen the lions on the library ceiling? They’re pawing at the edges of ontology, where flowers bow like gentlemen with Sinatra-style fedora hats. Everyone is lithe, lither than pigeons bopping on the curb and squirrels scrambling at a crumb of bread, and yet the lions lie in stubborn stone. Nothing to do but dance.
The Validity of Self-Help: Literature Like any Other
Toward the end of a several-day hiatus from writing, I visited a bookstore for the sole purpose of perusing. I was shocked to see that “self-help” had become a section of its own, donning a few eight-foot high columns. Authors promoted anything from traditional Buddhist concepts to successful wall-street financial maneuvers to better the reader’s everyday life. I picked up and flipped through The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck by Mark Manson, whom I was already somewhat familiar with, when it dawned on me. I just need to write this piece. I don’t need to actually give a “F*ck”. Motivated by a Nike-esque “just do it” mentality, I embraced the ethos of the self-help genre.
The Woman with the Cross Tattoo
On my sixteenth birthday, I ask my mother if I can get a tattoo like hers on my wrist. Raising an eyebrow at me, she responds back, like she’s done, a thousand times before,
It’s not a tattoo, she says.
