When will Vysotsky send us screaming out our whispers stumbling across the floor on our knees in absolute grace of seeing our faces in the reflection of a pool, sureness, unforgiving pursuit of bloodred yes, self, to dance without being sold as a marionette, Baryshnikov’s triumphant fist in the air of silent Kirov spinning, fetal, reaching, anguish of unstretched limbs, to run, to run wild and ungated
wave goodbye to ‘save $665 on car insurance’ ad-men I will close my eyes and will away bad dreams, get back on a stage selected, hand-picked by me play the fool even to empty seats, sure-footed, knowing what I can do. Giving to no one fragments of sundowns — arms out, hands moving ever closer towards I don’t know what.
I don’t know what. The little bit of life I can get ahold of, ay, a humming.
One day in mid-winter when I was in high school, I went out to lunch with my older sister and her college boyfriend. At some point, I mentioned to him that I liked to write, and he asked what writers I read. In those days, I would have never admitted…
My first record player was a hand-me-down, 1930's-style Crosley with built-in speakers. It was a hulking eyesore and it sounded lousy too, but it was mine. I was 14 when I took it home and set it on a too-small table next to my bookshelf.
My grandmother was a frustrated artist. I say frustrated not because she was at odds with a search for expression, but because she was never satisfied with her creations. She painted portraits until she found them contemptible, then destroyed every last one.
Edgar Allan Poe will always be one of my favorite American writers, and not simply because he has a penchant for the grotesque. Poe had an incredibly rich way of storytelling, of shaping the language to meet his vision. …