Toward the end of this episode, Dan hears from a woman who used to be homeless and "ride the rails" and when she would have a relationship under those conditions, she and the other person would be together 24/7, and they would bond very quickly, because of the circumstances. Now she's settled and has a home and she called for advice because she ( Read more... )

The back door has not been opened since you opened it to check if our kung pao tofu was still in the yard where the criminals tossed it. That was over four months ago, after the police brought us home from Kensington with no keys, after you scaled the side of my house and jimmied down my office window, after the officer on watch scolded you for ( Read more... )

Brown leaves don't cling to the tree.
They hang from every twig,
any part not attached
moving each and every
time the wind blows
in any direction whatsoever.

.

”The path to Stony Creek is so obscure that when I show you how to get there, you'll be the first person who has stood there since the turn of the 20th century. The bottles are weathering into the sides.”

.

All the pigeons are in the sun. All the assembled pigeons on the wall. The shattered glass of the bubble enclosing the escalator down to the subway looks like sun glinting on water, and the buildings are shining tall. All the feathers of the pigeons are puffed and the birds are huddled. The birds know where to be for now.

.

becomingunparallel (or Don't Cross Me, Love)

River trail, train track, river --
parallel, parallel, parallel.
The consequence of becomingunparallel
would be shattering.

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Not Quite

"Uh, we need two tickets. How much is it?"
"Where you going?"
"Oh, East Market."
"Market East?"
"Yeah, Market East."
"One way?"
"Yeah, two ways."

Someone made a thing that does nothing but spin when the wind is channeled along curved copper blades. It spins all day long on the corner by the kitsch shop and grinds no grain and moves no water and butterfly-effects nothing in the world that I know of. That I know of. In the world that I know of.

A mural at Market East Station that you go so slowly by on the escalator calls up images of coal miners with their lunches and their boots. It's of passengers standing with their boots near the floor where the first bricks and mortar were stacked long ago.

I'm trying to type "Accustaffing interview" into the calendar in my phone, and predictive text causes me to type "Skywriting interview." Do I have the constitution to fly in the face of that suggestion?

Finally I can stand, eye-level with the signs, in a second-floor window in an old part of the city, where the streets are narrow and the neon leans toward the neon and the walls lean toward the walls. The glass alone seems flat and upright.