Tag Archives: Jim Davis

Wells on Welles, an Orison

We prayed for a miracle… KTSA San Antonio, reporting.                         The able-bodied sons of these United States dug into their gun collections. Orson Welles’ delivery of our infinite complacence, our general spinning, neglecting the vast intellectual promise of the occupied universe, … Continue reading

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Ouroboros

What could be more accurate than a night owl plunging for mice? In the lit room beside life the artist breathes between letters. Does craft adjust to transmit essence to the breathless rectangle, or is language inherently immobile, scribbled on … Continue reading

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Bunker

What demands might we, that you would surrender the hill? This is why I say everything I’ve said: for you the sky would lie down in a puddle of effluence and gasoline, paint rainbows. Fight. Pistols fell in winter, and … Continue reading

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Freight Horn

His right ring knuckle was aching, it would rain soon enough. Happiness will tip the balance of broken Sundays and profitable Tuesday afternoons – sleep and sunlight, sunlight and wakelessness, in the wake of an insomniac? not he – it … Continue reading

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Exhaust

Sunday morning, I spit thick into the sink. A carpet of haiga on the hardwood floor: drawing paper and india ink, instinctual strokes, a red solo cup stained purple at the rim. There is no Zen like staying up late, … Continue reading

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Pebbles

Ripple the skin of a thick lake. Orbit is nothing compared to the effort and effect of a boulder rolled down a hill. There is little said of perspective in the footprint of a beaten town. Now there is a … Continue reading

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The Language of a City Changed Hands

Like silk worms dangling from similar trees in every piece of French-Hungarian literature on the shelf. These particular threads, revisited in a winter café, sing like Johnny Mathis, blanketed by familiar din and fragrance. On a similar note, we were … Continue reading

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