And it’s the beginning of the end of the world – the regulars are turned out of the taverns, red-faced and singing defiantly, swaying and carrying their jackets under their arms into the almost-spring night, leaving behind the warm beer-sign bubbles, the cracked cheer of the bartenders, the pilsner philosophy of their fellow compatriots holding … More The Lights Flicker Once, Last Call in Suamico
We do not speak of the outside world – we whistle at the sun nosing around the fraying stratus clouds, lifting and dropping golden rays that splash our ankles and the winter-dead grasses – we call out to our dogs sniffing one another in turn, then exuberantly rolling in the dead carp that the bald … More By Tacit Agreement, Sunday at the Sensiba Trail
Chickadees, snowshine, tourmaline skies; Blue jays, jack pine, solitude mine.
We “go thrifting,” my daughter and I, because it’s again cool to be uncool and because she can’t yet hear the murmurs of each discarded thing. I dread finding items I’ve already cast off at the Goodwill on Oneida street; I prepare to glance away awkwardly, pretending to see something that interests me in the … More A Confederacy of Dunces and Castoffs
The heart is a muscle The heart is a fist it’s strong and it’s wary, this beast in my breast. My heart has been sleeping My heart has dreamed dreams – It wakens, now, flexing, it growls and it gleams. My heart is gone hunting, My heart leads me on Through starless dark forests, on … More Heart in Darkness
I am the reflection of a star on the dark glass of the river just before dawn breaks.
Sometimes you are hauled backward before you can move forward; you get on a plane in the dark in Nashville and head south to Atlanta before touching down in Milwaukee where someone you love waits in the sleeting rain to drive you back and pour you into a warm, flightless bed. Sometimes the moon draws … More The Insufferable Logic of Tides
On the way home we pull off Highway 29 near Abbottsford to get gas. It’s been raining since we left Minneapolis. An Amish buggy clip clip clips into the auto parts store across the road. The horse doesn’t question, just stands there, dripping. Maybe they sell tractor parts, too; or maybe the man just wanted … More Saturday at the Abbotsford Auto Parts Store
October rain ebbs and flows and falls and falls and falls on the crooked pine trees and the roof, on the old swing set and the black driveway, on the cold, wet burn barrel and the American flag at the hundred year old house on Shady Lane where my parents live still. In the basement, … More The Disobedience of Rain