Halloween.

It was August when the rocket came in the mail. It was late September when he finished putting it together. The first weekend in October, he brought the rocket to the backyard, carefully sheltered the match he struck to light the fuse that he had cut too short, and, with a precipitous eruption of light and sound, he blew off his hand.

It was his first and last year trick-or-treating as Captain Hook.

Mark Twain's hyperbolic South.

When I think of American Realism, and the way the movement tried to counteract Romanticism, I can't help but think of the statement made by one Mr. Oscar Wilde: "Life imitates art far more than art imitates life." It seems to me that realism's answer to this maxim was to create an art that no life would ever want to imitate ever - no matter what the circumstances.

Reflections of a dead uncle.

Or maybe he isn’t related.
Maybe he isn’t dead.
He’s just sick, is all,
Or someone you hardly know.
But, probably, it’s not.

Just something you heard in passing.

He passed away earlier today.
Who?
Oh, you know.
He did? How sad.

And when the doctor came in to give him the bad news –

It’s cancer. I’m sorry.
Well, it’s about time.
I’m sorry?
Are you asking me now?
No, it’s just – why do you say that?
I’ve been smoking - this isn’t news.
Regardless.
You’re sorry. I know.

I wasn’t there –
But he knew it was better
To have a sense of humor

At least, always
When you get bad news.

I wasn’t there when he died.
But I wouldn’t have been able
To make him laugh,
Even if I was.
He deserved as much, anyway.

Just someone you barely know,
Or heard about
In passing.

Is it really all right?

This morning when you wake up the first thing you think about was what she told you about the wedding. You didn't even really look at her. You thought it was raining this morning. It's winter. Why would it be raining? You go back to sleep. You wake up again when your phone rings. You think it's her; the other girl, this new girl you met. She smokes, too, which is something that's usually repulsed you, but some women for whatever reason can pull it off, like a black and white movie. She tells you she wants to go to India. She wants to ride an elephant. "They're called 'howdahs'" you tell her, and she squints at you like you've just proposed to her after only knowing her for a week. Considering how easily you fall in love, this isn't totally out of the question. "That's what they put on the elephants backs to ride them: howdahs."

"Oh" she says, and the two of you leave to get breakfast.

Sour Grapes.

Up visiting from a charmless winter,
She gives a sound to me.
“Here,” she says. “Take it. It’s yours.”
It carries no weight,
And it does not move me.
It is a dull gray murmur
That makes me realize even more:

I should never have come here.

Where are your clothes?
She asks me,
calling me different names
All morning.

Why did you come here?
An implication
I am currently familiar with.
Sidled with a sad indifference and
A series of regrettable decisions that
Neither one of us were prepared to make
As children.

Why are you so quiet?
In the car
Driving home,
And it lingers there,
But only for a second.

We had to shout last night.
Remember?
We were dancing and then we kissed
In your sisters room
And -

Why are you so quiet?

Because.

I am looking straight ahead.
I am trying to see through
These low clouds
To better make sense
Of what it means
To get older
Everyday.

And still . . .

Something a lot of people don't know about Jimmy Carter is that he used to eat frogs. From the time he was 13 to when he was 19, he used to eat them as practice - should he ever get lost in some Georgia marsh and have nothing to eat. He cooked them over fires mostly, tried a few boiled, and once, when he was 17, he braved one raw. Just bit right into it's skull and gagged reflexively as soon as he heard that little "crunch" and "squish." At 20, Jimmy Carter ("Crazy Jimbo" to his friends) soon realized that he would never possess the ineptitude that would allow for him to become lost in a Georgia marsh.

This story is entirely made up.

I sometimes think of God this way: a made up story about a man eating frogs in a Georgia marsh.

I can't put a band-aid where it needs to go.