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When they were alone sometimes, she softly called him “Onion Whisperer” with a Siren’s voice most intimate although that moniker she applied to him was for reasons not altogether clear, as he had no teleological disposition, viz., interest in the results of growing “large(sic) onions,” especially w.r.t. the Allium cepa generally, although he did have… — read more

When we lived in Japan in the late ‘80s, K. and I would sometimes, during the warm summers, take a day and drive north up the Shimokita Peninsula. When we reached Mutsu Town, we’d follow the turn west in our little Subaru sedan onto the 338 Road that hugged the north coast of Mutsu Bay.… — read more

She blows a sassafras saxophone I play with gusto my own xylophone The music is getting us pheromone’d Of possibly our being unchaperoned And traipsing on Love’s steppingstone Or calling sweet Passion’s vibraphone To play those notes on her back-a-bone — read more

This morning, I’ve been watching the squirrels do their gymnastics in my now leafless ornamental apple tree, those squirrel creatures getting the last of the little bitter red apples as the winter looms in time-distance and the nights grow long and cold, and it makes me think of that Elvis film Roustabout where the dude… — read more

White lace demurs, and the Universe abides her satin breath, warm with subtle hints of cinnamon and marzipan. And on this breath comes cloyingly her whisperers into my good ear, her lower lips speckled with a smear of sugar glaze. For it’s Friday. Donutland beckons. Donutland. That anchor of a building with faded gray concrete… — read more

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It’s been two days since I’ve had more to eat than a handful of overripe wild blackberries that follow in a tangled mess the clear glacial-fed River Onyx. The berries have all but disappeared since I’ve climbed onto the boulder-strewn outwash, which has made my forward progress tedious at best. Yet when the wind blows… — read more

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The locomotive’s mournful horn sounds as I, explorer like, come down onto the Tualatin Steppe. Donutland calls to me in an aspect most primordial. For at this place, the mastodon’s Ghost rules as long ago those burly beasts frolicked and procreated under the Intoxication of that Ancient Drive of Desire that we all feel when… — read more