It’s Not Fair, But We’re Related
First you’re something else. And then you’re back. Then you’re not here anymore.
What did you expect from a distant relative? This family has never been golden.
This family has never been family.
Sometimes the mountains above Anywhere Ridge are just mountains and
sometimes they are dusted with powder-blue symbolism.
Look, it’s snowing now. Witness.
I’ll just sit by the window. I’ll just equivocate and sustain.
I’ll invite you back again before you arrive. I’m that kind of a guy. I am. The
family approves. That’s how we got this way.
So what poised uncertainty shall we activate next? Perhaps a symmetrical
opposition. Deep wet wrists. Just slap them on the table next to the breeding tray.
Now you’re enticingly enigmatic again. The family’s with you, but it’s not really
the family that does that. It’s the arrangement of the relatives.
We’re already overextended. We live in a little picture window with our name on
Now your motion has been suspended. Now your suspension has been distributed
to willing participants. Several of them know you didn’t mean to be this way. Several
recognize the uneasy resemblances. Separation in degrees but not very many. And several
summer in the mountains above Anywhere Ridge where their powder-blue symbolism
grows increasingly subtle with every passing relative.
Fiction. Modern Abstract Fables.
(First edition, hardcover with dustjacket, 524 pages, $36.50 USD.)
Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days draws from fairy tales, a condescending of a 1938 Social Studies reader for 6th grade, an 1890 handbook on marital compatibility, numerous annoying educational advancement studies, the myths and legends of third-world countries and minority peoples, pulp fiction, a history of carnival side shows, folktales, frequent conversations with Crows, Owls and a wide variety of underground inhabitants, insects and the people who collect them, Joseph Cornell, Günter Eich, Russell Edson, the French Surrealist poets, the Quay Brothers, letterpress printing, and the author’s inability to channel his imagination linearly.
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