Falling Asleep During A Storm
Outside the wind roars without ceasing like a restless ocean bruising the shore. Windows shake with fear in their panes. The clock’s heartbeat quickens and the chair nervously shifts its weight from one leg to the other. On the stove, beans soaking in a pot stir in their sleep, sighing my name. At the first crack of thunder the ceiling threatens to shatter, like the shell of a hard boiled egg struck with a spoon. The telephone almost screams. Then softly the rains begin. I dream of lush tropical forests and wake up pulling out strands of my hair like long dark weeds from the newly moist earth.
In Defense of Van Gogh
Even if it was only the tip of his ear and she was just a gin-soaked whore with old thighs, the point is at that moment to him she was more beautiful and more rare than a thousand perfectly cut diamonds or a field of royal blue irises or you in your red parrot dress. And if I ever love anybody even half that much I’ll gladly cut off my whole head for them if they ask, and even if they don’t.