A journal of narrative writing.

a Machado, Lorca, et al I lie to my students. Get the facts wrong. Read their poems and don’t tell them they are the same poems I’d written years ago before deciding to despise them. In the afterlife, always this reiteration of errors, this hearkening back unto the stark & narrow chiaroscuro of one’s original attraction to the dark, the duende whose flamencos are heeled upon battered wooden planks. And the lines between sentiment and passion? How could one describe them without a drink in hand of nasty gin or minty mojito? Tonight in a place nouveau Andaluz, swart and seemly, Ulrecka dances accompanied by a jonesing silk-fingered Pole plucking the heart from a strung guitar. Across her face, shadows & grimaces like a woman making love to herself inside the distracted, dilating whole of her body a-tick with hips & castanets and steps steeped in pattering vent down upon the otherwise earthen floor. Below, lesser ghosts go pissing off back to the stirred porridge of such grief as once consumed them, their hunger keened in the mouth of an authentic gypsy housewife offering her voice like bread or bridal sheet seasoned with a spot of blood. That aria gleaned of gall & cries can’t be taught but as notes, and of dance, the simplest tithe is a discipline the flesh merely repeats. I lie to my students, despair the lack in myself to make visible the ink inside of each word, am feckless to teach how to reach beyond postures to the act bent upon living with what it can & can’t.