When everyone had assembled, Bruce led us into his bedroom. His parents weren’t home, “Take a look at this,” he said, spinning an army-issue .45-caliber pistol on his finger in the manner of an old west gunfighter. “My ‘ol man gave it to me. This thing is so powerful,” he went on; “My dad says if you shoot a man in the thumb, it will knock him to the ground.”
Read MoreWe’ve been living in a hotel for almost two months. It’s August and hot as hell out here in Florida, a kind of hot we’ve never known.
Read MorePlease! I am not responsible – all this beauty! I never presumed
to be your mother, your father, certainly not your savior.
Between now and now
is the waiting of the
clock’s second tick
When a child starves in a mother’s arms
the whole world feels sick
even if we don’t want to talk about it
vultures perched
on winter’s skeleton-bare sycamores,
beaks nuzzled under brazen feathers
as they digest their scavenge
Après-midi des enfants By Richard Carl Subber The pond’s blue water, ruffling in precocious breezes, coolly boiling with the thrashing and sparkly splashes of sprites masquerading as children, all enmeshed in the gentle net of...
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