If a god were to blog, I think the result would look a lot like mine, i.e. not very good, at least not very good when measured by worldly standards where traffic is king.
Author: David Barker
Poem: Red, Black & Blue
A warm and blustery wind from the southhas caught me full on my mouthand turned to red and black and bluea cheek that once shone white for you. I wanted a single room apart,but you demanded all my heart.What you asked I gave for free,withholding nothing, me to thee. On flat stomach and virgin monsran…
Why commas matter
Although I wouldn’t describe myself as a grammar Nazi, there are times when I think it’s important to observe certain fundamental rules.
Scots and Toronto Tourists
I’ve always assumed that Scots are just naturally hospitable. Then I read Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting and stumbled on a passage (you won’t find this scene in the film) that causes me to wonder if maybe I haven’t met the right Scots yet.
This Blog Doesn’t Allow Head Coverings
This blog does not provide services to women who wear certain head coverings. If you are a female Viking, your browser will no longer work properly and you will be redirected to more suitable web addresses. Here are the reasons: 1. I am a white dude and it’s my god-given right to treat with suspicion…
Kiss of the Fur Queen by Tomson Highway
The Roman Catholic Church appears to be in crisis with the continued outing of homosexual pedophile priests and revelations of abuse. The sad thing about this is that the abuse is not the crisis. Given that abuse has been happening since the days of St. Peter, one can hardly call the status quo a crisis.
Beyond Explanation
We tend to think of reading as an advanced form of cryptography. At least that’s the default approach for a rational soul like me. The poet has a thought or feeling he wishes to communicate, so he takes that thought or feeling and wraps it in a coded packet called a poem.
The Other Sister by Lola Lemire Tostevin
The Other Sister is a story of twins and, perhaps necessarily, a story of personal identity. It concerns Julia, a freshly admitted resident of Evenholme, a home for the aged. At 97, Julia is sound in her mind, but growing frail in her body. Her daughter, Rachel, has given her a laptop computer and so Julia reluctantly agrees to spend a little time each day typing her recollections on this new machine.
Poem: Rondo
cash grabs and glad rags feed bags and grab bags old nags and plastic blow flies and jujubes If Freud had been Japanese,would free association have ledto the penis? Why not to the tongue?Or to a flip of the middle finger?Both potent in their own ways,and mightily accessible. keen tools and old fools big screens…
Ode To A Bowl Full Of Breath Mints
Instead of staring at the damn thing, why didn’t Keats look inside the urn? Maybe he would have found candies or cigarette butts. Instead he just went on and on about sylvan lovers chasing one another around the outside.
The Convalescent, by Jessica Anthony
Have you ever wondered what would happen if Franz Kafka had written William Goldman’s The Princess Bride? Neither have I but I just thought I’d ask.
Story: A Shitty Parable
In Rome there is a grand hotel. I’ve been there myself and can attest first-hand to its grandeur: the well-appointed lobby and the urbane concierge, the bellhops in their scarlet uniforms, the majestic ballroom that has entertained dignitaries from around the world, the five-star restaurant which caters sumptuous banquets, the luxurious rooms with their beds and draperies and gold-plated faucets.
Love, etc., by Julian Barnes
Do you remember Michael Apted’s documentary Seven Up! He follows fourteen kids from a variety of socioeconomic backgrounds and poses (to the viewers) a simple question: is there truth in the Jesuit dictum “Give me a child until he is seven and I will give you the man.”
The Nipple Revisited
More than a year ago, in a post titled “The Nipple Exposed,” I wondered why our public morality has grown increasingly prurient in its fascination with open displays of nipples.
Attachment and Truth
Here is a story which Thich Nhat Hanh recounts in his book, The Art of Power: