"Passent les jours et passent les semaines ( Read more... )

( I can barely admit I have this dream, it flutters around my head like a bad hairdo, but sometimes I still dream about my first boyfriend... )

From where I stand, everything is bright and transient. Words and music spiral thickly down behind my eyes, corkscrewing soft and relentless towards flickering uniformity. Five hundred artists sing their muted souls out and the static, thick and sweet, pours and swirls down, down, down through me. Too many gestures for me to name, the beckonings, ( Read more... )

In a series of film stills and stereoscopic views, I recall my father, hairy and bold, standing resolute on our front stoop; my father, hands on his spine on the floor in a spasm; my father, dancing over the stairs. Skin grey-cast, thick arms supple as old softballs, he grins. He sings a bad song about RNA transcription. He tells a dark joke and ( Read more... )