May 2009

<Hello World>

from one more late immigrant to this space where every island has a name & many build bridges to everywhere:

Here you’ll find literary work & links, worklife links & concerns, space for personal generalizing (or persona for specific personalizing).

Original work published here is to be shared according to CC license (soon to be added–not for commercial reuse, but with proper linktribution) ; opinions are not those of my publishers, editors or academic superiors; any mistakes are my own fingers+eyes.

In Arcadia

In his journal of days left to waste, there’s a fly.
Truffling through blank pages past a last-year entry
he found, near the end of the book, this irregular
black period: big-eyed head flattened to profile,
forelegs caught in a stick-figure mime of prayer—
a supplicant, killed in an insect cathedral.
Its wings, vein-leaded windows, insanely tiny.
Who knew how it got trapped there. Almost as though he
had flown into that book—for months unopened—
hoping to land on one page worth saving, one sentence,
one word uninfected by self-pity or pretense.
If the pages fanned like slow wings toward the end
that was because the words were flies on the skin
of something dead. The book caved in on him again.