Walking away from a church in Hernandez, I saw what was soft about the hard. So I climbed inside a steer’s skull, and cycled through the cochlea pathways that pressed against my toes and fingers. I covered my face and hands with the odor of sand and oil paint, and wandered the hallways sifting through the grains of dust and color. I pulled my … Read More Bob’s Steer Head, 1936, Oil on Canvas (To Georgia O’Keefe)
Category: The Poetry.
I like to go where the old people eat, curious fingers curled like shrimp, picking at pickled beets from the buffet, sweet and tender, steeping in red juice and ringed with age like an old maple tree. Sitting in booths, legs and backs creaking and scraping against green sun stained vinyl, the eaters silently scoop potato salad to their lips. They recall hot … Read More I Like To Go Where The Old People Eat
Lunchtime at the Hawkridge Café Earl licks the powdered sugar around his cuticles like salt from a margarita. The white dust floats from his lips and beard, the eider-down of sweeteners. Pouring his second cup, a waitress awards him false eyelash winks that remind him of noble caterpillars crawling on tomato vines heavy with fruit. He breathes in a sip, the rising steam joins … Read More Lunchtime at the Hawkridge Café