"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

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

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

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

family guy

I picked up two booksfrom the 2nd hand store.Kinky Friedman;Early Dashiell Hammett.A zippered jacket for Milowith embroidered dogs.It is much too big for him,Still.Of the two exercises inRunning to Seed,I prefer the Hammett.Hard Spined.Hard Boiled.Not quited there yet,Flawed,better between Sacramentoand Tijuana. The Hop.My older son’s hairhas grown way pastShoulder-length.All but half way toHis ass.I am

@sshole

A couple of days ago, I was deliberating on the apparent demise of certain voices. Some articulate pockets of resistance. Querulous individuality. “The curious vilage of Blog houses a fragile temple. Twatter made a dent on it. Bookface corroded its foundation,” I wrote. Of course, that is only part of it. The relief is that

falun gong | falun dafa

As I mentioned by way of aside, our recently expanded family of six chanced upon some volunteers and practitioners of Falun Gong in the park. Actually, there were seven of us. Less than magnificent. Enticed there by the spectacle of carnival atmosphere, our minor logistical nightmare was all but devoured by incipient rainbow of colour.

revolution .000

The revolution is not so much on pause, as riven by incertitude.The click track – you may have observed – has fallen foul of synchronization: Stalling; Steiner, and Bradley. As unreliable as Ukrainian trains. Between Kiev and October. Burrowing under creaking autonomous sod. Moles. Metro gnomes. Travelling in fits and starts; co-opted SMPTE time.1/4; 1/8;

hypnotizesomeoneforbeginners

My wife seized the wheelof the skillet,I took the stool and nurseda glass of wine. ” You like risotto ?” she asked. “I don’t mind paella,” I said. “It’s the same thing, withoutthe seafood,” she went on. I took a sip. “Well. I don’t care for anything with peas throught it.”“That’s right,” she said,“you like

bounce and rhyme

“Bounce and Rhyme,”the handbill reads,“FREE for Babies under Three!”So we bring ours.We arrive at the libraryten minutes late,The Reading Roomfilled with noise,Cleared of books,Smoke, An ocean of motherscross leggedon turquoise carpet,Gurgling parcelsDangled in velour lap.Thank god, I am notthe only man in here.There is one. Two.I am possibly the oldest.But freshly shaved. We double parkthe

triage

Christmas Treeshave taken over ourPavements,Creeping out undercover ofDarkness,Flood Warnings,Dragged out out of bed to sober Up,unwanted guests.By morning they haveSuccumbed to frostbite.Sheddingneedles like so manyFingers. Toes.Walking backfrom the brink ofShrivelling,we step behind aDislocated limb,allow a woman tomove past us,Uninterrupted.Thanks, she yawns,Her breath aFog. Steaming likeWarm breakfasts.Tea. Toast.We nod and pretendto examine the tree,Stoopinglike Undertakers onThe Job,Measuring a

1010011010:~$sudo su

There was a time when all was word,from font of crackling spindleSearing Moses ear,to Albert James Freed on the AM dial. Before that too, the coiled copper wireof the fallen, whispering for Adam.Serpents. Rose seeds.Unplumbed wormholes in the garden. The nature of the word is virus.Binary. Hyperlinked. Self-replicating.It will not rest, in cave nor cache,what

fingers in the pies

Antonio Prohías, 1961. “A Ha to Doctor JohnsonSaid Scipio AfricanusLift up my Roman Petticoatand kiss my *@!$! Anus“ – William Blake, Complete. The following (quoted) piece first appeared the day preceding Hogmanay; under a different badge. I promptly reset it to draft, given my alarmism seemed a tad overblown. In hindsight, I’m not so sure.

the wrestler

Of all those odd jumbles of vowelsmy son brings with him to the world –the gurgles; yelps; indian war whoops –broken consonants, riddles, squawks,the strangest by far is that piercingscreech; a squeal of brakes on adodge scraping the corner, hubcapflapping, all this accompanied by tinyfists flung out over each shoulder,as he comes to in his