July 16, 2015: Series 4 of Collaborative Work at Pair-Shaped Journal

The fourth and final in a series of collaborations between Elizabeth Crisman and me is up at Pair-Shaped Journal. Here is Elizabeth's photo, and my response, the short "Baggage":

So many things are forgotten, or forgiven.

To read the entire story, go here.

July 14, 2015: Series 3 of Collaborative Work at Pair-Shaped Journal

The third in a series of collaborations between Elizabeth Crisman and me is up at Pair-Shaped Journal. Here is Elizabeth's photo, and my response, the short "Swan Lake":

So much depends on what is never spoken and also what is. So much depends on where you are waiting and how open you are to what comes along.

To read the entire story, go here.

July 7, 2015: Series 2 of Collaborative Work at Pair-Shaped Journal

The second in a series of collaborations between Elizabeth Crisman and I have are up at Pair-Shaped Journal. Here is Elizabeth's photo, and my response:

Definitely not husband. He speaks, an unremitting monologue to which I respond in monosyllable. I hold the poems of Anne Sexton open on my lap. If I read, if I pretend to read, it does not matter. He will repeat aloud amusing signs, the mileage left to San Francisco, to Sausalito, to Petaluma, to Santa Rosa. He will muse about dinner, three hours away, where we will stay, at least five. Should we drive the whole night through?

No man is an island. He is a peninsula and a small package of value.

To read the entire story, go here.

New Collaborative Work in Pair-Shaped Journal

Really thrilled to collaborate with photographer Elizabeth Crisman in series 9 of Weston Lyon's beautiful new collaborative journal, Pair Shaped. Earlier this week Beth posted this image, and I responded with this story:

We eat oranges on the train. I had been dreaming of meat, a roast with a thick brown sauce, instead of the thin juice that filled my cheeks as my teeth ground into the cellophane pulp.

We had not planned to leave so soon. There was a fight. Predictable for us, perhaps, but we had expected the country to fold over us, like a tissue over phlegm, and conceal our rotten parts; to present us, to Europe, to ourselves, as downy snow virgins.

To read the entire story, go here.