No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
Seconds tick by. Downtown LA this time of morning is almost but not quite still. Beginning to wake up. I’m aware of my breath, the rustles, mumbling, cursing going on down the sidewalk. The stink of things I can’t identify. “You ever come to get soup?”
Her most cherished album of all, and her most cherished memories, were of her trip to Italy when she was in her twenties. It was the trip of her life. She had to live at home for two years saving money for it.
HEARING THINGS? SENSING SOMETHING THAT HAS YET TO COME?
The afternoon I was supposed to sign my employment contract, I walked out the company doors, resolved never to return.
...I was told repeatedly not to go to the end of the block. This was said as if creatures from a distant planet lived there. My mother was of the opinion that the people “at the end of the block” were to be avoided.
Like Jackson Pollack and Mark Rothko, Jokūbas numbered his paintings, refusing to ever give any of them a title or even a date.