Madness, As I Understood It

It's Funny, For A Long Time I Would Go Watermelon-red And Deny That I Was A Magical Realist. It Felt Imprecise To Me, A Misrepresentation.

A Single Note, Held In An Amber Suspension Of Time, Like A Charcoal Drawing Of Icarus Falling. It Was Sad And Fierce All At Once, Alive With A Lonely Purity. It Went On And On, Until My Own Lungs Were Burning. “what Bird Are You Calling?” I Asked Finally, When I Couldn’t Stand It Any Longer. The Bird Man Stopped Whistling. He Grinned, So That I Could See All His Pebbly Teeth. “you.

I'm Probably A Lot Closer Than Perhaps The Contents Of My Early Fiction Suggest To A Jaded Denny's Waitress With Smoker's-lung-black Humor Than A Ghost Hunter.

A Food Truce, The Picnic Suspension Of Oedipal Feeling That Permits The Generations To Love Each Other At Family Reunions.

At The End Of The Block Where I Used To Live In Coconut Grove In Miami, There's A Swampy Area, A No-name Alcove With A Little Mangrove Estuary. It's Beautiful.