"an experimental approach to understanding burnt fish bone"

The rain threatened, a sickly purple glowering, and I was listening again to some Charles – Bukowski not Ray – while my wife dressed the baby between coffees. ‘90 Minutes in Hell‘, via Nothin‘ in Sacramento. Three short damaged pieces. I did not get so far as ‘May Make Paris Yet‘. The readings are almost

hurricane irene | descargas in miniature

The last I looked, Manhattan was Joe Bataaning down the hatches in preparation for the worst. All along the financial district, while the last revelers refused to vacate Times Square even as the tourists were being flushed north. Within an inch of Harlem. Irene, Irene. Turbulent of eye. The calculating stare of a catatonic in

incremental air strikes

Incoming. It had all the ingredients of some kind of coup d’état. What began with an 8:30 AM jaunt to the labour exchange – “wash n’ go“, the knives safely locked away for sharpening – saw me madly waving in the coordinates for an air strike less than one hour later. Cellphone in hand. Leaning

hot sauce | no colonel sanders, fast food pharaoh

photograph by james joern. It was vaguely my intention, late into last week, to bring Alice Coltrane onto the bleachers. To dispel all notion of Yoko to her John. I don’t know. Dizzy psychotropic laments. Meandering astral flights in the footsteps of pharaohs, priests. Instead, I tumbled through Friday afternoon into the weekend proper swaddled

book of job

leonaert bramer, circa 1630. Good things, it is said, come to those who wait. In my experience, it is more often a case of the postman’s second knock. A bum rap. Seldom – if at all – a welcome intrusion. Chinaski in tissue overshoes. And puddles on the stairs. Our mail, it is observed, largely

the BBC observes | the GLC protests

tottenham high road. after Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes. ▼ WIRE: REUTERS from “Pink Flag” LP (Harvest EMI) 1977 (UK)

goodbye blackberry way

montage by ib. While the bleachers blistered through July into the beginning of August, it was never going to get hot enough to legitimately demand intensive care. The contrast of just a few degrees makes all the difference. I largely avoided commentary on the London riots because, in common with most of those people who

the grape, the grate, and me

photograph: the old kichen window, and others, by rosa b. Me and the grape appear to have come to a parting of the ways. Whether we are finished, or whether he is merely on holiday, is cause for some debate. A sobering thought. Either way, our rules of engagement – the gushing over that till

milo

milo, by rosa b.

three from the tombs

the gorbals, 2008. photographs by rosa b.Of course, this is not the first that I have pried up the corners of anonymity. Cautiously. An ill advised act of self sabotage, I am inclined to believe.The faint waft of marzipan. Imagined sulfur.The forensic evidence – provided by my now wife – is of your sibling from