weekly muse...
volume 1, issue 14 | 2022-09-21
poetry
cooking beans
i read standing up water bubbles in my pots of chickpeas and black beans like thoughts in frothy brains each seed a lively stone a budding acrobat bears careful watching
-- from homebound
slow road
i am in too much of a hurry is this what you are telling me? the man in front of me drives slowly as if he is looking for something or already found it
-- from along the way
prey
i am the antelope whose flesh the lion tears apart while yet alive, from breath to breath one beating heart my blood pours down her throat
-- from everything rhymes
washing dishes
-- for thich nhat hanh, dishwasher water, soap, and rag hands in sink scrub and rinse, my skills return like an old master, it has been years since i broke my last dish
-- from lives of the poets
summer field
grass heads nodding with the wind all the seeds agree another day -- from another day
short stories
parade grounds
…continued
Early September 1996, Abraham’s Altar
Ren and Bob were resting on the lumpy mattress of the small bed in their dingy motel room on the back roads of southern California where the foothills and desert meet. Watching TV. Ren looked over at Bob, facing away from her. His body was shaking in spasms, his sobbing drawn out into wailing, as rivers of tears and snot flowed freely down his face. Bob could only muster sputtering bursts as he tried to speak.
“We almost lost him.”
“I know.” She answered, gently touching his shoulder.
“No, I mean really. It was that close.”
“I know.”
“We still are not out of the woods. We have a long way to go.”
“I know. We'll do it.”
“The most important thing is that he'll let us. That's the thing...” His breath escaped him. At which point he could not attempt more speech.
-- from signs & wonders -- coming next: "wedding plans"
lucy (losing the light)
…continued
Mr. Davidson studied my camera as I drove the old Neon toward the library. On our way out the diner, he had playfully pointed it toward Candace and clicked the shutter. She was leaning against the brick foyer smoking a cigarette on her break, and she struck a mock Hollywood glamor pose as she smiled into the lens. She knew I had no film.
The ‘little car,’ as we called it in my family, had pretty much become mine by now. I couldn’t believe they kept it all these years. The red paint was starting to fade, but it still worked pretty well. At least, good enough to get around town and back and forth to CLC for classes starting next week.
“I just have to pick up one book on hold for my father.” I corrected myself. “Well, actually it’s for me, but my father reserved it.”
“Uh huh.” He was still inspecting my camera. “It’s in very good shape. Class 2 condition.”
“I found it at the thrift store. Can you believe it?”
“Where?”
“In Gurnee.” I added. “Just down the road.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “I know the place.”
“It still cost a small fortune.”
“Mind if I ask?”
“Three and a half.”
“Thousand?”
“Hundred.”
“My god. That’s still a steal, you know.” He marveled. “With both lenses?”
“Oh, yeah. There’s no way I could ever afford the zoom.”
“Amazing!” He grinned like a coconspirator. “Well done.”
“I have to scrimp for film.” I lamented. “It’s empty now.”
“I hear ya.” He grimaced. “Been there. Done that.”
I pulled into the library parking lot.
“You know, you can practice without film.” He peered into me. “Just like musicians do with piano boards and drum pads.”
“You mean pretend?” My sideward smile cracked again. “Go through the motions of setting up and taking a picture?”
“Not pretend. Practice.” He was serious. “I used to do it all the time. When I couldn’t afford film. It helps you to see.”
“Hmm.” I tried to look studious, like I was thinking about it. But the whole thing seemed strange to me.
“What’s the purpose of film anyway?” He waited for my answer.
“So we can see what the picture looks like?” I felt so stupid, like I belonged at the local community college instead of going off to school like my friends.
“We have our eyes for that.” He insisted patiently. “The picture is all around us.”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged my shoulders. “To show others?”
“Yes!” His eyebrows danced. “To show what we see to others. That’s the only thing film is for.” He scowled. “It’s a damn nuisance other than that.”
-- to be continued...
-- from summer’s end
microfiction | a history of the world
…continued
peasant (harvesting grain)
My scythe is graceful in its sweep. Momentum of tired years.
Grain dust fills my nostrils. Covers sunbaked skin. I smell of wheat. And earth. Always the same. Always anew.
I am a human pendulum. Swaying shoulders. Twisting wrists. My lord does not need his fancy new clock, when he has me.
We march in neat columns. Harvest the enemy. They bow their golden heads before us. Mowed down, summer wheat.
-- to be continued…
-- from a history of the world