we step out the front door it’s eerie, like a piece of glass slipped over a painted world a still life so quiet I hear the blood run in my head, like you’d notice a creek hidden around a bend wind, birds, all sound crushed my dogs look around too, noses flair, heads swiveling, nothing the stillness feels lonely, almost apocalyptic, like, where is everyone? halftime’s almost over although I can’t hear them refill glasses and munching bowls or use choice adverbs and

realize that stone you’ve picked up was born of the scrapple of the earth - dust, dead plants, bits and fragments, matter hard and soft - squeezed solid for a million years, pushed and twisted for a million more, till it broke away then worn by wind and water and kicked around by fate, became the warm interesting nugget in the cup of your hand if that’s the story of a pebble, it makes me want to grab something hot to drink get comfortable in front of a fire, and listen to t

I first met Arthur at a joint down on Lower Spine Street. He’s a regular there. Then I ran into him at the corner of Knuckle Way, and about the same time, on the curve of Thumb Drive. Though I don’t know him, he likes giving me brutal hugs, especially on cold mornings the kind that hurt and last too long. It’s gotten so annoying that when I try to walk away when he starts, he won’t let go, squeezing bone and cartilage in a painful embrace and to let you know how insen