I stand upon the gravel, it is not immense but I can’t imagine counting each stone, each rock of support. A turn of foot, crunch step, crunch step, I am cavernous, connected to each. I am here.

Waiting. Blue ribbon beer in my cold hand. Winter is not to be messed with. Instead of the blanket of clouded warmth there is the pin prick light of sky, that ancient light competing with the nubile light of the city, the whites and yellows in the maze of concrete and shadow.

It must pulse on some scale. the lights seen over great distance and time. The lights of the planet, the heart beat of the world and I am here.



Some Unfinished Prose

What should be music is not, as if Wendy Carlos had given up and played only three notes over and over again. That music is outide the room, along with a chain of voices and slow rolling wheels. This room is unlit., the green glare of a screen saver and the flood of flourecent is waiting to light the page.

This is not TV show pristine, with bright whites and blues, where everything is new with symmetry. but rather it has a dischordant wall of warnings and omens. Black scuff trails from the floor up to the lower half of the wall where you cannot walk, from where furniture was moved. I dare not imagine the floor with the lights on, when everything can come to focus, where this _______ equipment was put down without thought.

These are not the colors of clean, the hues of sterility. This feels more akin to an office of automatons, middling with a desire to become a cube farm, but can’t quite attain those lofty goals.

Ten Minutes

Ten minutes on a breezy Sunday afternoon on Lexington Ave.  Ten minutes.  This is what separates us.  Ten minutes.  Not the distance between Chicago and Asheville.  Not the clutter of a missed exit on the freeway, not the litter of roadside billboards, or the flat of the Midwest.  Ten minutes.  I imagine stalky fields of corn and wheat between here and there.  The culture shock of not finding a Waffle House. Is this a lack of Southern Charm?   Continue reading

Jesus Was A Hard Drinking Man

photograph by Chris Owens

John 8:1 — 8:11 an interpretation

Jesus was a hard drinking man, standing out on Olive Street trying to find some action. It was spring break weekend and all His girlfriends had gone down to Florida. Jesus took out a flask labeled Holy Water and took a sip. Continue reading

Our Town or The All Nude Midget Review In Drag

Our Town or The All Nude Midget Review In Drag.

A comedy of errors, absurdities, hallucinations and play writing.

Written by Greg Brown and Jason Adams.

The setup: J is a writer who has been commissioned to write a play.  That play is several weeks past due.  G and S are his roommates.  The following scene takes place in a rather spacious kitchen.  Jane is the audience plant. Continue reading

A Memory from Rosetta’s Kitchen

photograph by Woodie Anderson

I am at Rosetta’s Kitchen.  I have finally made it.  I am sitting on their patio deck, looking out onto the rainy night of Asheville.  A black coffee is near my hand; the smell of comfort foods swirls in and out with the comings and goings of the wind or perhaps the fan above my head.  I dream of the meal I would have if not for the lack of cash: smashed taters with Granny’s gravy, macaroni and cheese, and peanut butter tofu. Continue reading

Dreams of Amy Sedaris

photo by rachel is coconut&lime

Last night I dreamed of Amy Sedaris.

I suppose that work dreams happen to everyone.  After a particularly difficult day on the job, you come home with legs wobbly from standing and walking all day.  Your arms worn out form robot like repetitive writing.  And for good measure it has been a difficult day. Continue reading