The Tang minister Fang Xuan-ling, who visited Master Hsi-wei in his retirement and recorded their conversations in his memoirs, relates the following story about the origin of the Master’s gnomic poem popularly called “Teacher Window.”
While he was making his way through Jizhou, it happened that Hsi-wei was invited to rest for a few days in a hillside monastery. The monks were of the Ch’an sect, therefore exceptionally neat, disciplined, and, when not silent, economical in their communications.
Continue reading “Robert Wexelblatt: “Hsi-wei, the Monk, and the Landlord””
Bad enough that Dale went to San Francisco for a three-month picture assignment without taking Sela, or even telling her he was going—he dumped Cleo on her too. And then the dog started to go blind.
At first Cleo gave no hints of anything wrong. Maybe less barky, but Sela figured that was because Dale wasn’t there to give her a cookie every other minute. Cleo never interested her much anyway. By dog standards she was cute: long body, short legs, big eyes, nose like a black strawberry. Otherwise she was awful, totally spoiled, snapping at other dogs and Sela too (or any girl who stole Dale’s attention), barking if they went out without her and then pissing the rug out of spite. She played Dale like a violin, but growing up on a dairy farm had left Sela unsentimental about animals, and unplayable.
Continue reading “Tim Millas: “Cleo’s Vision””
My only gift is I do voices. Not perfect, but in a noisy bar my Cagney sounds okay, my Cary Grant even better, and the LBJ is a killer, although my fellow Americans did boo me off the stage recently on Open Mike night at that dingy Chinese restaurant on Sheridan Boulevard. Those dirty rats! Voices and, I guess, a certain pluckiness in outlook.
Continue reading “AN Block: “Option Four””
The few who knew of my scheme advised against it.
“Violates common sense” was their consensus. Hitchhiking coast to coast under pressure of deadline is daft. Will take far longer than you think plus too many pervs on the road. “You’ll be AWOL,” they warned.
I don’t dispute their point about common sense. But their other items are arguable because not one had ever driven cross country, much less hitched 3,000 miles. In fact, none had hitched at all.
“Only hobos do that,” they said.
Continue reading “Francis Duffy: “Rubbish””
Elegant and elderly, the woman stood in church,
uttered bilious words about the organist’s
loud music, then stomped off during the Postlude.
We stared at her, then turned to one another,
our mouths half-open, jolted and amazed
to hear such profane language from a woman
we had thought polite, soft-spoken, kind.
Continue reading “Lynn Hoggard: “I Think I Know””
Bee Cave to Honey Grove, Big Lake to Little River,
Sweetwater to Sour Lake, Kingsville to Queen City,
Newgulf to Old Ocean – lots of towns with ties.
You can breakfast in Early, lunch at Noonday,
and hustle west to Sundown for dinner.
Continue reading “Chip Dameron: “Crisscrossing Texas, or 19 Ways of Looking at a Road Map””
You, the divine cow
who we milk somehow
beyond the red slaughter
inside the blue laughter
You, mutable as the seasons,
mutable as the reasons
we give for our incontenence
on all the sliding continents
Continue reading “Chuck Taylor: “Dear Whoever You Are””
Two women in a boat on a summer’s day—patches of light,
blue and white, an umbrella across the knees, the waning
century, before the death machines—sitting upright
against the backdrop of water and ducks.
Eight years before Monet—she is a painter determined.
Her mother diminishes her work as ordinary,
hoping she will heed the calling of her sex.
Continue reading “Brady Peterson: “Summer’s Day””
You know about addiction
when after reading the rare
bird alert you find yourself
in the rain opposite someone’s
house, window rolled down
with beach towel to cover
most of the inside door,
and you start to feel a little
better when the rain lets up
Continue reading “Ulf Kirchdorfer: “Bird Alert””
Iridescent blue-beige, polished with a soft cloth
After rough chiseling with precise tools over time.
The twilight of dying day fixates on the angles
And brings the girl in a swing
To true 3-D pale white flesh,
With flecks of blinding yellow lightning bug flashes,
Despite her porcelain restraints.
Continue reading “Jules Gates: “Girl in a Swing””
It is March, 1990. Lynn and I are stuck in Comitan, Mexico, but not for long. We are waiting in a frame house, set back from the Pan American Highway, which runs through the heart of this small city and on down to the border with Guatemala only eighty kilometers to the south.
Continue reading “Donley Watt: “Guatemala, 1990””