There comes a time when one feels like throwing off the chains of civilization and returning to the simpler and friendlier past. The comfortable sofa loses its appeal. Processed foods no longer satisfy. The office worker stares past his computer screen, controlled by an urge to unleash himself into the pathless woods, the lands empty of plastic trash.
Stories, poems, essays Posts
It is the world, tonight, that I let go,
when thoughts too far from words burn on my tongue,
and rest’s ache rests upon me here, among
the sundered stars that I shall never know.
A year ago, I attended a writers’ conference in Washington, DC, with the Hedge Apple Magazine, which I was editing at the time. The cost of the conference covered a free subscription to a magazine of my choice, and I selected American Short Fiction, since I wanted to be more familiar with the fiction that is being published today.
One evening bright with blazing cloud
I climbed a rocky crest,
and saw the Phoenix tall and proud
building up his nest.
O daughter of the gently valleyed hills,
where like a child I lie against your breast,
my cares all fled into the utter west,
you give the dew of Hermon for my ills,
that from your heart distills.
Acts 16:16-17
For seven years I walked with demon guides,
divining deathless words for mortal men;
tales of dark wisdom they gave me besides,
draining my soul and filling it again