Minutes waning. An oblique flash of moving from one gallery to another in the Rodin museum the last time I was in Paris ten years ago. All of piece together at once, no breaks in time or breath. For a moment I was there enclosed by all that I had been subsumed by then, or … Continue reading The Afternoon We Spent at the Rodin Museum in Paris with Death [short fiction]
I could not take my eyes off it at the Met, I recollect having read in a story centered on horror and the baroque, how perhaps the baroque and the 18th century sense of gothic in fiction were related aesthetically, in some ways anyway.
There have been many paintings I could not take my eyes off of, but this one, so large, it was tremendous. I recall having said as I walked into the gallery where it was hanging, Caravaggio’s La Deposizione, Christ being placed in his tomb, the two Mary(s) behind with their hands raised in epiphany–dead Jesus, the man, the glowing Christ still. I first went with a friend; then I went with family; then I went myself—I loved taking my dad then how long ago now decades earlier than the year he died.
How long ago was it? I should be able to answer, but…
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The Publishing Editor of The Review (a contemporary journal of ideas on the model of literary review commentary we have observed since the inception of the genre and form in the 18th century, if you will, as I do . . .) . . . he writes in his editorial post something on the nature of … Continue reading ch 3 Up [Fiction]
Accounting is necessary in business; it is necessary to keep one's economic affairs in order; it has had its affects on the history of writing, the first written documents were warehouse lists, no? This is not true, not accurate? Of course, it is. What do you imagine the rise of the novel would have been … Continue reading ch 3 Layer Cake [Fiction]
Stars in space are as cells in mitosis, he heard her say, or so I would say he heard her say so as not to be seen as someone who would say such a thing for himself. Each one formed by related processes, I would go on to say he heard her say, as … Continue reading Such Things as These [prose fiction]
The sun approaching noon, skies clear, a blue, crisp, a blue, pristine . . . sky unspoiled by humidity, dry today, as dry as sand, today, cliche sky, blue, nearly 0% humidity, you know---no clouds to speak of except thin wisps of cirrus . . . What Ms. Stephens says, she says with pen and … Continue reading The Wake of a Wave Back into the Sea; or, She Wanted Lunch [Fiction]
I What is it that anyone can say about what he sees? Or what he hears? Or what he feels? Things to say about--what can anyone say? Yes, what words are there in the treasure house of words, words and more words, so much cacophony---there are only these words to say, to tell, to speak, … Continue reading The Shadows of the Bare Branches of the Tree on the Wall [A Short Story]
Alone at the shore. The wakes of high tide this morning reaching my feet, how so sitting, the sands, there I am dreaming you, day dreaming as I have, drawn horizons, other orisons, the prayers I le… Source: To Talk or not to Talk [Flash Fiction]
The dialogic imagination . . . sometimes my ideas are conversations in the head. I’m always talking to the people I know when they are not around. I hear them clearly as if talking to me. There is no strain in what they say or how they say it.
I frequently wake talking to the dead.
for all those who are befuddled by the fact that we have come to a place in our history where Hilary and Donald are the choices we present for President of the United States; talk about going to hell in a hand cart The Monologic Imagination by Thomas Sarebbononnato Our world has been so much … Continue reading ch 3 The Monologic Imagination [A Short Story]
Up to the Minute [A Short Story] How many minutes? How many minute-waning days? How are our days spent? Mine are spent in the minutes. We live life---I live life in the minutes, not the hours, not the years, not the days---weeks and weekends are absurd as well. Sun up to sun down. What do … Continue reading How Do You Spend Your Day When You Lose Count of the Minutes Passing? prose poem
How many more observations is he required to make---to take? What does it mean to make a mis-take? Ah! To take things the wrong way; which way; all ways. What he sees he says he has seen many times, even if he has seen it only once. There is little to no Truth in journalism … Continue reading Once Upon a Time; or, On the Nature of Diplomacy [prose poem]
Manhattan Puzzle; or, Matryoshka Dream [Short Story] When I write the way I think a writer writes when he wants to have a narrator tell the story of a man who tells the story of another man telling the story of a man who exposes his sentiments about a bookstore's staff that he finds---why … Continue reading What Else Do You Have to Say to Me?
Ludovico Media I July 4th, 2016; 7:47 AM EST; New York City. Labyrinth and abyss. I have always imagined Alex in A Clockwork Orange singing "London Bridge is Falling Down." I do not think about why I have imagined thus. I have not asked the questions I would need to be able to--I have no … Continue reading Ludovico Media [A Short Story]
Excerpts [ . . . ] . . . and so he says, sipping his coffee this morning, not being able to enter the kitchen to have anything with his coffee, "Waiting for the man to finish putting in new tiles, really on, that is, over the old tiles. I do not know how long … Continue reading Tiles [prose poem]
Raising the finger to God. An interesting attempt at a reversal. However, God uses the index. Do you remember Michelangelo's panel on the Sistine Chapel Ceiling, God's finger to Adam's? But then maybe Michelangelo showed us the index the way artists for millennia showed us the wounds in the palms. We know in fact that … Continue reading The Finger [poem]
To kill or not to kill, that might be a question, if not the question. Is it nobler to imagine a world where killing would be unnecessary? How many slings and arrows of fortune should I have to endure? Is it be better to end them by ending their source, or continue to sleepwalk my way through life … Continue reading 1 I Am, therefore I think [Short Story]
Note from the Editor: Pages from a philosophy student's notebook. No name. No age. No gender identification. July 1. The perfect human is the humane one, one who is endowed with the fullest faculties of his or her humanity intact, fully realized in his or her ability to be compassionate and forgiving, fully capable of loving … Continue reading All Too Human [A Short Story]
Everything herein is fiction, not so much because everything herein is a thing made, thus a fiction, but because everything here is written by a fictional self for a fictional audience in a fictional America. No longer me, no longer America, no longer us or We. No matter how much something reads as if it … Continue reading An ABOUT Page [prose poem]
What is it that fiction should do? Should it do anything other than what it does, incidentally? Is there ever anything incidental about literature, the literary,or even the popular, or pulp, or any part of culture, any conduit, medium, any resulting exchange, reception, framing whatever have we to analyze, all analysis an anal-ization? Are … Continue reading Enabling; or, Ethnic Correctness [Fiction]
The Letter [A Short Story] A letter is an essay; all letters are kinds of essays. All the modern genres are plastic; all the genres of antiquity are not. They are fixed--what more need I say. The essay and the novel; just when does modernity begin. I have a more acute sense of what … Continue reading How All Letters are Essays, but not All Essays are Letters
. . . and there you are, new nick names by Jean Vincent Renault to you my long lost friend from Grad School---Blazer Jim. How many years has it been? I hear you're married now. I always liked those professorial blazers you used to wear when we were back in Grad school. We should have … Continue reading Cold Leftovers for Lunch the Day after Thanksgiving [prose poem]
I am not this, nor am I that, nor am I then, nor am I now; neither here nor there, but everywhere and nowhere and anywhere outside of these lines on this page—what could be said anywhere that lets you know enough about someone, anyone, everyone is and is not the same, is and is … Continue reading NEW POTENTIAL OLD [fiction]
The moon was my friend, I said, when I was a boy. I am telling you what I said more than what I believed. What I believe or did believe is of no never mind now. I was a boy. What I said is indicative enough--it does indicate, does serve as a sign of something, … Continue reading The Moon is She [Short Fiction]
New Flowers of Evil; or An Ornery Man Speaks of Fleas, Rats, Misogyny and Garbage in the Lawn, as Well as New Home Owners who Destroy Beautiful Gardens and Cut Down Fruit Trees Turning their Fronts into Deserts or Newly Laid Concrete Patches Much, Much Hotter in the Summer Sun Prologue Spleen. Bile. Venting my … Continue reading A Genealogy of Morals[A Short Story]
for Lloyd Craig Blankfein A nose for a witch in a fairy tale . . . and I would like to say something about fairy tales, also about folk tales, are they the same, what do we use to explain them, articulate them, understand them, categorize them, the botany of it, no? Zo-ology? What else or … Continue reading Blood Suckers [Fiction]
Dinner for One i Horizon to horizon, one-hundred and eighty degrees of ocean horizon . . . what then must I say? How up equals down horizontally; but how vertically, of course, it is another thing; up is up and down is down but not down is up or up is down---get it? I do. … Continue reading Uncertainty is not a Principle [Flash Fiction]
Thank-you, Professor Ginsberg I Infinity or eternity, now that might be a question. Most of us presented with eternal happiness or infinite happiness would choose the latter. Most of us would be mistaken, grossly in error. What is it that we imagine would happen to us if the possibilities presented to us were infinite; wanting … Continue reading Incidentals of a Day[ poem]
A worked-to-death body found floating in a river. A body discarded in water. The culprits had heard something about washing away sins. Ablutions taken in the Ganges she had talked about. A film I saw when I was a boy remains forgotten except for occasional slivers of pictures, still. What can I say that would … Continue reading Misery is for Misers [prose poem]
Impure Blood [A Short Story] Prefatory Remarks by an Authorial Voice More remarks after the fact. Everything before a story is after the story. What is a story--true or fictional? I hesitate to say un-true for fictional story. There are many kinds of fictional forms. I am not going to delineate them here. I understand … Continue reading Impure Blood? [a short story]
The universe is absurd, brother. God sets it in motion and sits back and laughs. He likes watching us the way we like watching the monkeys in the zoo. How can you conclude that the universe is absurd if you have concluded that there is a God? What does the existence of … Continue reading Sisyphus Lives [Flash Fiction]
A whale of a ride, a whale of a good time, a whale of a man, all of them big, better, greater. A whale of a Self--the Self of many selves is Leviathan of a kind, a calling we should be able to know by any other name, how we name the things in our … Continue reading A Whale of a Self; or, the Vocative Mood of a Sub-Sub Librarian [A Short Story]
He does wonder why she has to be the way she is, when she is, how she is this way she is, where she is this way, that way, what way, any way she is, which, as you should know, can only be to up-fucking-set him. She wonders why he has to say what he … Continue reading Unconsciously On Purpose [Flash Fiction]
I The pool loves Narcissus. Echo loves Narcissus. Everybody talks about Echo. No one talks about the Pool. The Pool is unable to echo Narcissus's last words. The Pool cannot speak as Echo can speak, if Echo's punishment could be called an ability. The Pool reflects Narcissus's image, what he sees, what he falls in … Continue reading The Pool, You Know; the Pool [A Short Story]