At Sterling Pond

Tuesday, 9 May 2006

At Sterling Pond the reeds are old women whis­per­ing; the red­winged black­bird a priest with a martyr’s stole. It will not cease to preach nor the wind kill its wild ser­mon. This is where you were beau­ti­ful all those years ago, when we walked along the shore lis­ten­ing to small waves and tree frogs, hand-in-hand. When we walked on the stones like drunken things and found our­selves sur­rounded by drum­lins. I kissed you then, and they watched with flick­er­ing hope in their pa­tient res­ig­na­tion, as waves wash them through the win­ter. I re­turn alone, as I did on that day so long ago, and wash my hands un­til next year.

From A to Z: Some Family Ties

Wednesday, 23 February 2005

Any brother can dream. Ego fra­ter­nity grates his id.
“Just kid­ding!”, laughed my niece, open­ing presents.
Quietly read­ing, sis­ter turned up very well. Xeroxed years zip.

From A to Z: The History of Mankind in Purgatory

Friday, 18 February 2005

Achilles be­came calm. Defeating ef­forts from great he­roes is just killer. Leaning mo­men­tar­ily near oc­ci­den­tal porn­stars, quite re­laxed, supine — ter­ri­ble un­du­la­tions volleyed within xeric Yiddish zealots.


Wednesday, 2 February 2005

At the end of an­other long and ap­par­ently fruit­less day do­ing what he did in the flesh­pots, the last thing Andro wanted was an­other main­te­nance call. But it came any­way, a flash­ing light glar­ing into his eyes and a noi­some chirrup nest­ing in his ears.
He put down his bur­rito, shot down the rest of his vodka and tomato juice and for­got to pay the wait­ress.
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Thursday, 9 September 2004

jalopy.jpgThere was once a clown who worked at a cir­cus fac­tory that made clown parts. This clown was a qual­ity tester at the fac­tory.
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Crossroads: A Parafable

Tuesday, 24 August 2004

crossroads.jpgIt hap­pened that three men died at the same time. Since this oc­curred in such a syn­chro­nized man­ner, they de­cided to travel to­gether to the realm of the dead.
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Wednesday, 21 July 2004

scarebear.jpg In my dream of an anti-grav­ity rock­et­ship lived the Scarebear. It was crash­land­ing on Earth be­cause it was out of solid fuel and its pile drive[r] was fid­gety. It was good, [I sup­pose] that it flopped crunch­ingly right into the as­sem­bly bay of Amalgamator.
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